


In Over Your Chest is Way Too Deep (AKA Surf Bois)

by speakslow



Category: IT (1990), IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxious Eddie confidence building (my favorite), Client Eddie, Flirting, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mid-late twenties, Other losers mentioned and cameo, Rating will probably go up, Slow Burn, Surf Instructor Richie, Texting, angstless, but nothing major like a mild sad face for a min, maybe a hairs worth of angst, you know what that means
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-03-26 21:13:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 57,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13866126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speakslow/pseuds/speakslow
Summary: Eddie Kaspbrak gets more than he bargained for when he signs himself up for surfing lessons.





	1. comfort level: 0

The whole thing was a terrible idea from the start. He was only an okay swimmer. His sense of balance was less than stellar. The smell of the ocean did not particularly please his nose, and he hated having sand stuck in his ass crack. But his therapist suggested it as a way for him to engage outwardly. She said that trying an activity outside of his comfort zone would do wonders for building his self-esteem, which was something they were working on in their sessions.

So, despite all his reservations, Eddie Kaspbrak bought a goddamned wetsuit and booked an appointment for a private therapeutic surfing lesson.

He arrived at the beach fifteen minutes early, which wasn’t out of the ordinary for him. It seemed like they were going to have the sand and surf all to themselves for their session because the parking lot was completely empty. The day was warm and bright, but it wasn’t beach season yet; not even summer yet, in truth.

Standing behind his little red beater in his wetsuit and flip flops, Eddie played with his phone to kill time. Nine o’clock arrived, but his instructor did not. Nine fifteen came, and saw him impatiently pacing forward and back, staring hard at the long and empty road that led to the small parking lot. Nine thirty was his breaking point. Eddie opened the passenger side door and tossed his phone at the seat in frustration. It bounced off the flattened cushion and onto the floor with a pathetic little  _plop_.  He reached over to grab his enormous water bottle out of the center console.

“Of course, this dipshit is late," he muttered to himself, "He’s a surfer. He’s probably going to show up stoned.” Eddie shook his head as he slammed the door.

Just as he was about to walk around to the other side of the car and drive away, a shiny blue convertible Jeep pulled into the lot, top down, music blasting, four brightly colored surfboards sticking up in the back. It parked crookedly three spots away from Eddie’s car.

The engine turned off and a ridiculously tall guy stepped out. He had on a tank top with text that said  _“Do you even lift?”_  next to a Tyrannosaurus Rex attempting to bench press. His hairy legs were long and lanky, covered in neon orange board shorts, and he wasn’t wearing any shoes. There must’ve been a face somewhere behind his crazy mop of curly dark hair, but all Eddie could see of it was a pair of reflective pink aviator sunglasses. “Are you my nine o’clock?”

Eddie squared his shoulders and attempted to appear taller. “Wouldn’t I be your nine thirty-five, since that’s when you decided to show up?”

“Sassy,” he declared, grinning as he stepped closer. He pushed his sunglasses up into his hair, revealing his warm brown eyes and freckled face. Biting down sheepishly on his full bottom lip, he shrugged. “Sorry, I’m new to this. Punctuality isn’t my strong point.”

The guy was gorgeous, and Eddie fought the urge to gulp like a cartoon character. He shook his head to clear it, reminding himself that this was a professional engagement. “Um, it’s okay." Responding to this guy with anger  _or_   with lust was directly opposing everything he was working on with his therapist. "I’m Eddie, I don’t know if they told you my name.”

“They did not.” He stuck out his hand to shake. “I’m Richie, I’ll be your tour guide in the wonderful world of standing and/or laying on foam.”

Eddie allowed his small hand to be enveloped in the large, warm, bony nest of his surf instructor’s fingers. It seemed to go on for longer than a handshake should, but Eddie wasn’t really that great at gaging that sort of thing. “So what do we do? I mean, I don’t know anything about surfing at all. It’s probably actually kind of stupid that I signed up for—”

“Woah-woah-woah. Take a breath.” Richie turned from him to hop up into the back of the Jeep and pull down the boards. “We’re gonna get these bad boys outta here, and then we’re gonna walk down to the beach. That’s just for starters.”

“Why do we need four boards?”

“Two of them are just for learning your stance on the sand. The other two are for the water.” He spoke while he pulled out the boards one by one. “But I doubt we’ll even get into the water today.”

“We won’t? Why’d I even buy a wetsuit, then?”

“Probably because you’re a cute little stickler who desperately tries to do everything ‘ _right_ ,’” Richie air-quoted. He leaned the last board against the back of the Jeep and turned to face Eddie. “Seems that way, anyhow.”

Offended by the quick (yet not too far off) judgment of his character, Eddie clapped back, “You seem like a stoner who doesn’t take his job seriously.”

He slipped his sunglasses down over his eyes and barked out a sharp laugh. “Don’t judge a book by its cover, kid.”

Eddie crossed his arms over his chest as best he could with his water bottle in the way. “What, did you read that on your quote of the day calendar this morning?”

“Man. You’re somethin’ else, huh?” Richie kept grinning and picked up two of the surfboards. He nudged his chin towards the other two. “Grab ‘em and lets go,” he directed, before ambling off towards the sand, his long legs moving much faster than Eddie’s short ones could dream of carrying him.

Eddie hoisted the boards above his head and tucked his water bottle under one arm. He soldiered on, shuffling behind Richie as fast as he could. The breeze was strong enough that he feared being picked up off the Earth in a fit of spontaneous hang gliding. He watched Richie from behind, silently cursing him for showing up late, and for being tall; for his beauty and his sunny disposition. The guy was so good-natured that he’d laughed off all of Eddie’s attempts to insult him.

“This is our spot, Eds,” Richie called over his shoulder and stopped walking a few yards behind where the rolling surf crested on the sand. He dropped the boards unceremoniously and turned to look out at the water.

Huffing a little bit, Eddie jogged to catch up to him. He placed the boards and his water bottle down gently, attempting to catch his breath without appearing pathetic. “My name is Eddie,” he wheezed. “Not Eds.”

“Stickler.” Richie grinned over at him.

“It’s already a nickname. Why make it shorter?”

“I don’t use nicknames ‘cause they’re _shorter_ ,  Eddie Spaghetti.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Eddie pinched the bridge of his nose. “No.”

“ _No_ , what?” Richie hummed, teasing. “You said you don’t like short nicknames. There’s a long one for you.”

“I don’t like ANY nicknames.”

“But you just said Eddie _was_   a nickname.”

Eddie hung his head back and groaned. “Aren’t we supposed to be surfing?”

“I get paid by the session, kid. Not the hour.” Richie picked up one of the boards and placed it in the sand so that two of them were facing each other with about three feet of space in between their noses. “We’re gonna be here as long as we need to. So we might as well get acquainted.”

“Fine.” He kicked off his flip flops. “Eddie’s a nickname, just like I’m sure _Richie_   is. Let’s stick with them.” He pointed down at the board in front of him, the one facing Richie’s. “So do I just get on it, or what do we do?”

Richie took his sunglasses off and tossed them on the sand. “You always in such a rush? Take a second to chill.” He raised his arms, looking every bit like a starfish. “Look at the beach. It’s fucking empty. It’s fucking _gorgeous_.” His enthusiasm was earnest and he grinned like a kid at an amusement park.

Eddie felt himself softening. “I’m not entirely sold on the beach to be honest with you,” he admitted, spreading his toes in the sand and cringing a little at the sensation. “Sand stays stuck on everything forever.”

“You don’t have to be the world’s biggest fan to know something’s pretty.” Richie sunk to his knees on the board in front of himself. He made a face that was somewhere between a pout and a smirk. “You’re so tense, kid. It’s kinda really cute, but it goes against everything we’re trying to do here today.”

_Two times he’s called me cute._

He knelt on his own board to match Richie’s exact posture. “To be fair, I don’t _know_   what we’re trying to do here. Not everything.” Eddie knew what he’d signed up for. A surfing lesson, advertised as a you-are-one-with-the-board Zen experience. But he still wanted a list of the activities they were going to go through. An itinerary. Eddie _craved_  an itinerary. “I tried to ask you what we were doing before and you told me we were taking surfboards out of your truck.”

Richie rubbed over his mouth with one hand. He walked his knees back until he was at the edge of the board and dropped gracefully to his chest. Balancing himself on his arms, he arched his back a bit to keep his head up. “I’m gonna teach you how to surf, and it’ll be relaxing.” He lowered himself and leaned his chin on the board, looking up at Eddie with raised eyebrows. “If you let it be.”

Eddie's lips curled slowly into a smile, and he ducked his head. “What I’m trying to say, is that I can relax if you tell me everything we’re going to be doing during the lesson.”

“You really need to know every little detail in advance?” Richie grinned and rolled on his side. He leaned his cheek against his hand with his elbow pivoted. “Sure.” He took a long breath and rattled everything off. “I’m gonna show you proper body positions, how to lay, where to keep tension in your back and core, how to arch and paddle. Then, based on how easily you pick that up, we might work on popping up to a standing position.”

Nodding, Eddie slid his hands forward and tried to drop down to his chest as smoothly as Richie had, but he ended up clunking it. The thud was soft against the foam of the board, but he still felt his ears heating up. “As you can see, I’m very coordinated.” He shyly gave Richie fleeting eye contact to find the gaze returned to him warm. Appreciative.

“You’re gonna do great.” Richie rolled back onto his belly so they were laying in the same position, face to face. “It’s not about being coordinated, or even about being good at it. It’s about feeling like you’re one with the activity and connecting to it.”

“What if I tell you that it’s hard for me to connect to things if I’m not good at them?”

“Then you’re telling me that you’re kind of normal.” Richie widened his eyes, whispering, “Which is a shocker.”

“Shut up,” Eddie groused, but he couldn’t keep the smile off his face.

“You shut up. Here, try to match what I’m doing right now.” He placed both of his palms flat on the board just underneath his shoulders with his elbows pointing to the sky. It looked like was in the bottom of a push-up position.

Eddie moved his hands and arms to copy Richie’s position. “Like this?”

“Yeah, but—” Richie hopped up off the board and stood over him. “Here.” He placed his hands on Eddie’s elbows and gently moved them to the right spot. “Okay, keep your core tight and your back muscles engaged, but don’t forget to breathe.” His hand slid along the rubbery material of Eddie’s wetsuit, from the small of his back up to in between his shoulder blades. “Straighten your elbows and stretch your neck and spine as tall as they go. Breathe in on the rise; breathe out on the fall. Try to push against my hand with your upper back as you come up.”

Following Richie’s instructions, Eddie did what was asked of him as best he could and felt very much like _The Little Mermaid_ must have when she arched her body up on a rock with waves crashing behind her.

“That looks good,” Richie encouraged, walking back over to his board. He got down on his stomach and moved the same way Eddie did, stretching up and back down several times. “Keep it slow and controlled; breathe deep.”

Eddie followed along and continued the motion, keeping tension in his upper back and clenching the shit out of his stomach to keep his core tight. “Wow, this is already a lot of work.” He fell down onto his chest and laid his face against the board. “My abs are going to be really mad at me tomorrow.”

“They’re gonna be totally stoked that you paid them attention today,” Richie insisted, quitting his lifts and taking a brief break with Eddie. “You need a minute or are you ready to keep going?”

“I _think_  I’m ready for more.”

“Okay. Try to lift yourself so your chest is the only thing suspended, like this.” Richie demonstrated, easily extending his back to lift just the top half of his body off the board, keeping his arms in a flat, straight line underneath his chin. He lowered himself down slowly, and lifted again at the same pace, returning to the top position. “Breathing the same way: in-up; out-down. Now you. Show me what you got, Eddie Spaghetti.” 

Eddie made it halfway to the lifted position and lost his breath when he heard the return of that nickname. He dropped suddenly to his chest. “Hey, come on. What did I say.”

“Forgot,” Richie grinned crookedly, licking at his bottom lip. “Bad memory. Must be all that pot you think I'm smokin'” He winked.

 _That’s not the face of someone who honestly forgot_ _something._

Eddie lifted himself from the waist, slowly, up and down, trying his best to do it as effortlessly as Richie had. His ab muscles shook disobediently and his legs couldn’t stay planted on the board. Richie saw him struggling and quickly rose. He came back over to Eddie, standing over him and placing his hands on either side of Eddie’s lower body, holding his hips in place. “Keep doing it, kid. You got it. Up and down. Breathe.”

The material of his wetsuit was too thick for Eddie to really feel anything when Richie touched him, but he began to worry that he would end up embarrassing himself that day. The suit hugged his entire body, and if Richie was going to keep on getting handsy with his ass, well… Things were going to start growing and showing on their own. Eddie continued lifting his upper body off the board and back down. It felt like he was doing sit ups facing the wrong way. He was about to tell Richie that it was all too much and he needed to quit, when he heard a change in his instructor’s voice.

“Fuck, _fuck._  Oww, Shit.”

Eddie rolled over quickly and brought a hand up to shield his eyes from the sun. He squinted up at Richie. “What’s wrong?”

He had a fist pressed up against his left eyelid. “Sand just blew into my eye and it fucking kills.”

“Don’t rub it.” Eddie reached for his water bottle, suddenly all business. He was completely out of his element on the beach. Surfing was so foreign that it might as well have been an excursion to walk on the moon. But a semi-medical emergency? He was all over it. “Lay down on your board.”

Richie did as he was told, sighing on the way down. He muttered to himself, still holding his eye. “This is just fucking great. I didn’t bring my glasses with me either.”

Eddie crawled across the sand and sat beside Richie, looking down at him. “You wear glasses?”

“Yeah. I’d try to rub the sand out but I can’t because of my contacts.”

“Rubbing sand out of your eye is a terrible idea. You could scratch your cornea.” Eddie took the sport top off of his bottle to reveal the wide mouth of the container. He leaned over Richie. “Hold your eye open.”

“Uh, what?”

“I’m going to flush it out,” Eddie stated impatiently. “You have a better idea, genius? Besides rubbing the sand in deeper and hurting yourself?”

“No, I guess not.” Richie gingerly used his fingers to spread his eyelids. His eye twitched and tried disobediently to keep itself closed; watering and turning red by the second. “Fuck, this is perfect. My first client has to rescue me. I’m such an idiot.”

“Shush it,” Eddie said gently. “It was an accident. Here it comes, ready?” He poured a small stream of water into Richie’s eye with the slowest flow he could manage.

“Ugh, fuck, I hate it so much.” He blinked and blinked when Eddie stopped pouring. “Okay, do it again.” Eddie poured an additional short stream, and Richie let go of his eye. He sat up, still blinking. “I think it’s out. Thank you.”

“No problem. You should take out your contact to be safe.” Eddie didn’t know anything about contacts, but he figured removing it as a safety precaution was the best plan.

“If I take it out I’m gonna be half-blind, kid.”

“Yeah, but if you have sand in there and it gets underneath the contact you might end up _actually_   blind,” Eddie replied sagely. He unabashedly let his eyes rake over Richie’s face. The guy looked embarrassed and vulnerable with his one bright red eye, but fucking cute. _So cute_.  “Am I really your first client?”

He exhaled on a little smile. “You aren’t the first person I’ve taught to surf, but you’re my first paying gig, yeah.”

“I wouldn’t have known if you didn’t tell me. You really know what you’re doing.”

“Listen, this is totally unprofessional but maybe we should call it for today.” Richie sighed again, chewing on his bottom lip. “We hardly got anywhere, but you’re right: I need to go home and get my glasses.”

“I think my abs are thanking you right now.” Eddie smiled sweetly, scrunching up his nose. “Baby steps are sort of my speed.”

“Good to know,” Richie hummed. His eyes lingered over Eddie’s lips. “You wanna make another appointment for next weekend? I’ll try to be less of a mess. Show up on time. Bring my glasses.”

Eddie nodded vigorously. “Can I ask for you specifically when I call in, or is that—”

“You better,” he intoned, grinning. “And I want to see that you were practicing what I already showed you.”

“Homework?” Eddie grimaced and slumped his shoulders.

“Yup. You’ll thank me when it gets a whole lot easier.”

Eddie already wanted to thank him. Their short time together that day had been the most interesting thing to happen in his life in a long while.

They collected the boards and carried them back to the parking lot. After a short goodbye, Eddie sat in his car after Richie’d pulled away. His expectations for the lesson were surpassed immeasurably and his mood was entirely turned around. He’d arrived anxious and crabby, but left with a newfound passion for learning more about surfing and a burgeoning crush. A crush that would probably never amount to anything, but it felt fuzzy and nice and safe. Being close to someone. Being guided by strong hands and a mellow positive attitude.

Eddie drove home with all the windows down and his music blasting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from this song [The Vaccines - Wetsuit ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZY4J3sVMmN0)
> 
> @speakslowtellmelove on the blr


	2. mindfulness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lesson 2

The butterflies began fluttering their tickly wings inside Eddie’s belly when he took his morning shower. While it was a pleasantly familiar sensation, it was also annoying and unwanted. When he signed up for surf lessons his only goals were proving his willingness to try something different to his therapist, and using the experience as a test of the techniques he'd learned to deal with anxiety. He hadn’t even considered that his instructor might be interesting and have dark eyes and pretty lips, though in retrospect he probably should have. Falling helplessly head-first into crushes had been a recurring problem in Eddie’s life since puberty.

He pushed the warm fuzzies down, and attempted to fill his head with any old unpleasant worries he had on deck. Work drama, the fact that his brakes needed to be realigned, paying his utility bills—stressors that normally put knots in his gut—but those cotton-candy feelings were stronger than his brain’s powers of distraction. His mind and body both betrayed him like they did time and again: thinking thoughts he’d rather not, and feeling feelings inappropriate to the situation.

“He’s your instructor.” Eddie scolded his reflection in the full-length mirror as he got dressed. “You’re paying him to teach you something.” He tugged a pale-yellow tank top over his head, muttering, “And he’s probably not even gay. So just stop it.”

Though he dressed mostly for comfort, his secret secondary intention was throwing a little bait Richie’s way to gage his honest reaction. He gave himself a quick once over before leaving his apartment. Aside from his big brown eyes, the meager definition of Eddie’s biceps and his curiously thick quads were arguably the best features he had to offer, and both were on full display in mid-thigh length red swimming trunks, a plain ribbed tank and flip flops. Based on the first lesson, he didn’t think he’d need the wetsuit yet, though he tossed the rubber monstrosity over the back seat of his car just in case.

The short drive to the beach was accompanied by hazy skies and unseasonably humid air, but Eddie opted to leave his windows down. He felt the music blasting out of the speakers and the wind rushing through his hair as one sensation. It prompted him to imagine what it would be like to ride in Richie’s Jeep with the top down, and he roughly shoved the thought away, steeling himself with reminders that the surfer was far from perfect.

_Yes, he’s cute and has little freckles on his nose and he drives a cool car, but he’s also late and disorganized and he goofs around too much and he doesn’t listen. Don’t idealize him. Treat him as unavailable._

Unexpectedly, Richie was already parked when Eddie pulled into the lot, looking cozy leaned against the back bumper of the Jeep and unselfconsciously puffing on a cigarette. When he saw Eddie’s car, he stood up tall. “Sakes alive and sure and begorah.” He moaned across the space between them in a terrible, eye-roll-inducing accent as Eddie stepped out onto the shimmering asphalt. “He arrives earlier than the sun hitting the dewy emerald hills of me homeland.”

Eddie involuntarily shook his head as he slammed the door. “What the hell kind of accent is that supposed to be?”

“Irish brogue.” Richie shrugged and took a puff off his smoke. “So,  _someone_  is keeping it casual today. No more wet suit.” His eyes traveled down Eddie’s middle and got stuck somewhere around his thighs. “What if we end up making it to the water today, champ?” 

Eddie tried not to smile under that gaze. It was blatantly obvious that Richie was checking him out—effectively dismissing his earlier thoughts about the instructor’s sexuality and beginning a  _gay or not gay_   tallied checklist in his head. He felt like he’d been given permission to stare right back.

Richie’d dressed himself in clothes that were more surf-appropriate than last time: a three-quarter-sleeve wetsuit top that was somehow able to cover his impossibly long torso, and another pair of board shorts in a kooky floral print; a big old mess of greens and purples and pinks and blues. It seemed likely that he didn’t own a pair of shoes. He’d tied a green bandana over his hair and wore glasses, rectangular black frames that called attention to his sharp jawline and the natural straight shape of his eyebrows—both of which were very good features for him to have.

“I, uh, brought… my wetsuit,” Eddie mumbled when he could speak, tearing his eyes away. “It’s in the back seat.”

“I’m just messin’ with you. We’re not getting in the water anytime soon. I predict, just based on the first lesson, and on you in general, that we won’t make it there until after…” He held up his spread palm. “Five.”

“Five weeks?” Eddie squeaked, not sure if he should be offended. “It’ll take that long for me to be able to even  _try_ to surf?”

“Hey-hey, woah. Don’t take it wrong.” Richie tossed his cigarette butt on the ground and stepped closer to Eddie. “I’m not gonna let you out there until I’m sure you’re in the head-space you gotta be in. It’s a specific vibe. Just trust me, it’s not about your skill-level.” He turned his neck to look at the path that led to the beach. “Do you need to put sunblock on before we head over there?”

Eddie scowled his disapproval. “I put it on before I left the house.” Richie obviously spent a lot of time in the sun, yet didn’t seem to know how sunscreen functioned. “It takes thirty minutes to start working, you know. If you’re waiting until you get here to put it on, you’re in trouble.”

“In trouble?” Richie grinned and stuck out one finger to poke Eddie on his exposed shoulder. “Who’s gonna punish me? You?”

Eddie grimaced, embarrassed. That wasn’t what he meant at all. “I’m just saying. You’re a pale, freckly person. Pale freckly people are at the greatest risk for skin cancer from the sun.”

“Your concern for my health is super sweet. But I have bigger things to worry about when it comes to dying.” He pointed to his still-burning butt on the ground. “Like those beauties, or maybe getting eaten by a shark.”

Eddie was well-versed in shark-attack statistics. He’d spent an entire evening researching to ease his mind while he tried to talk himself into booking the first lesson. “It’s actually really rare to get attacked by a shark in shallow water.”

“Tell that to Blake Lively.”

“That was a movie.”

“A very relatable and scary movie, to surfers.”

“But statistically, it’s more likely for you to die in a car accident than to get eaten by a shark.”

Richie threw up his hands. “There you go, yet another fatal issue to worry about more than melanoma.”

“Okay, fine.” Eddie sighed in frustration. “Get skin cancer if you want it so badly. Can we get started already?”

“Yeah. Sorry.” He bit down on his lower lip and shrugged. “When I talk to you I totally forget what we’re supposed to be doing. Let’s go.”

Richie took off walking towards the beach, but Eddie stayed planted in place. It was a very small statement he’d made, but it may as well have been an elbow knocked into Eddie’s ribs. Their back-and-forth jabber was challenging yet pleasant, and it made  _Eddie_   forget what they were supposed to be doing,  _too_. Those butterflies were back with a vengeance, like someone turned on a porch light inside his chest and a swarm of them appeared from thin air.

Richie turned back and stopped when he saw that Eddie wasn’t walking. “You comin’ or what, squirt?” 

“Don’t you  _dare_   call me that.” Eddie glared and marched forward quickly.

“Oh right, this kid hates nicknames.” Richie walked backwards, his eyes roving again, down to Eddie’s knees. “So, I’m fucked, basically.” He bit down on a smile while Eddie speed-walked towards him, picking up the pace and jogging without looking behind himself.

Eddie gave chase and broke into a run when they hit the beach, but stopped abruptly when his feet touched the open sand.

Their area was already set up, with two boards facing each other in the same position as the previous week’s lesson, and the two boards that were intended for use in the water plunged into the sand and pointing towards the sky a few yards in front of their spot.

The whole business of surfing was so new to Eddie that he hadn’t even questioned why they were heading in the direction of the water without surfboards. He lamented his negative thoughts about Richie on the drive over, as it was abundantly clear he must’ve gotten there painfully early. He even went the extra distance and brought a small cooler with him.  

“I have some drinks and stuff for us, if you want,” Richie explained, watching Eddie’s eyes bounce all over his set up.

“Oh.” Eddie slapped a hand to his forehead. “I just realized I forgot my water bottle at home.” It was completely unlike him to overlook a detail like that.

“You probably spent too much time picking out your cute outfit this morning to keep your head on straight, I get it.” Richie walked over to his board and stood behind it. “It was worth it. And I got you covered anyway.”

“I barely even thought about it,” Eddie lied, moving behind his own board and facing Richie. He slipped off his flip flops. “So, how do we start?”

“We start with you showing me what you remember from last week.” Richie flopped down onto his board stomach-first and placed his chin on top of his stacked fists.

“Okay.” Eddie knelt and gracefully got down on his stomach, trying his best to ignore the weight of Richie’s stare. He carefully worked his way through the first exercise Richie’d taught him—a move which the internet assured him was a yoga pose called Upward Facing Dog—rising and falling in smooth controlled movements. Richie was quiet, just watching him.

He hoped it was obvious he'd been practicing, because he'd even gone so far as to look up a back-strengthening routine online. After the first three days of arm and leg lifts, the soreness in his back dissipated as his body got used to the movements. He felt infinitely stronger than he had the day they started, and he craved Richie’s praise like a wilting plant craved water. The motivation to get everything right came from such a juvenile place, but it was genuine.

After about ten reps of the first move, he worked on the second one: back extensions. Eddie was proud of himself because his lower body stayed firmly planted on the board and his abs didn’t shake nearly as much as they had the first time he’d been with his instructor.

“Yowza, this kid actually listened to me,” Richie marveled softly, kicking his big feet up behind himself like he was a gossiping teenager at a sleepover. “I can’t wait to see you riding a wave. You’re going to absolutely kill it, Eds.”

Eddie stopped moving and rested on his stomach, ignoring the surge of annoyance that flashed when he heard that nickname. He studied Richie’s slightly magnified eyes, looking for a hint that he was joking around, but finding nothing but sincerity in them. “Thanks.”

“No, Thank _you_ , for taking it seriously.” Richie’s eyes crinkled almost imperceptibly, and studied Eddie right back, cleaving across his whole face and down his neck. “But let me ask you, what were you thinking about when you were doing all that?”

“Uh, what does that matter?”

“It matters because…this entire lesson is to teach you to surf, right? But it’s also to teach you to _become_   an activity. To perform it with your whole body and mind.” Richie brought his hands under his shoulders and stretched his spine, locking his elbows to keep himself up. “That’s the whole point. Some people meditate by sitting on the floor and humming.” He bent his elbows and lowered himself down and stayed there, gazing directly into Eddie’s eyes. “Other people do it by focusing everything inside them onto something physical. Like Yoga. Tai Chi.  _Surfing_.”

Eddie nodded slowly. Richie’s eyes on his were too much and he looked down at the length of sand between their boards. “My th—  I’ve talked about that concept with someone I know. Mindfulness meditation, right?”

“Exactly that, yeah. The practice of keeping your thoughts singular. Only thinking about the activity.” Richie rolled on his side, pivoting his elbow to rest his head on his hand and tapping the other one on the soft foam as he rattled off his explanation. “You can think about your breathing, or how your limbs or hands or body feel as they move, or the next step in the sequence of movements, but nothing outside of the action as a whole. That’s why I asked what you were thinking. If you were thinking 'fuck, I need to pick up coffee creamer,' or like _‘Did I forget to lock my front door?’_  you have to—”

“I was thinking that I wanted you to be impressed with me.” Eddie blurted it out like he was trying to get the right answer in 8th grade geometry class and immediately regretted it, cringing at his nervous loose-lipped admission.

Richie wasn’t really asking Eddie to share what he was thinking, he was just trying to make the point that random thoughts about life were off the _acceptable thoughts list_   for the work they were doing. He wished he could turn back time a few minutes and take it back,  but when he cautioned a glance up at Richie, he relaxed. His words had softened the lines on Richie’s face, and brought a pretty blush to bloom on the apples of his cheeks.

Eddie eased back on internally chastising himself for over-sharing. “Right now, I’m thinking that I forgot to lock my front door, though. Thanks for that one.”

“Don’t let me put any extra thoughts into your head.” Richie chuckled and pushed his glasses up on his nose. “The ones you’re already having seem pretty cool, though. At least to my ego they do.” He threw a shy little smile Eddie’s way before ducking his head a bit, as close to bashful as he’d been in their short time together.

_Why? Why do you have to be so cute?_

“From now on, I’ll try to keep extraneous thoughts out of my mind.” It was the only thing Eddie could manage to say.

Richie’s lips pouted ever so slightly for a split-second and he averted Eddie’s eyes. “Technically that’s what I’m supposed to want to hear, but y’know.” He shook his head quickly. “Okay, so, let’s try it out. We’ll do exactly what you were just doing, for fifteen reps each.” After removing his glasses and placing them on the sand beside his board, Richie rolled onto his stomach. “You're only gonna think about your body and your breath. If you notice your mind wandering off, pull it back kicking and screaming. You catching what I’m throwing Eddie Spaghetti?”

“I was until you called me that,” Eddie replied, rolling his eyes.

“ _Sigh_ ,” Richie said, breathy and small. He got into starting position and Eddie copied him, hiding a smile.

They worked through the first fifteen repetitions in silence. Richie didn’t look at him, keeping his eyes down and slightly to the right of his board. Eddie started out strong, focusing on his breathing and paying close attention to the muscles that flexed in his lower back when he stretched up. He tried to force his eyes towards the sky on the upward movement, but his peripheral vision kept bringing him back to Richie’s face.

It became quickly apparent to Eddie that when Richie concentrated, he sucked on and raked his teeth over his bottom lip. It was incredibly distracting, and Eddie found himself wondering what that plump scrap of flesh tasted like. That most certainly was _not_   a thought he should be having at that moment. Though Eddie tried like mad to drag his mind—kicking and screaming just like Richie told him to—back to the task at hand, he couldn’t resist. Each time he raised his head he felt his eyes defiantly dart in the direction of that pink beacon like they had their own will.

On the top of the eleventh rep, Richie squinted at Eddie, smiling crookedly. “Your eyes weigh about a thousand pounds, kid. You’re throwing me off, here.”

“Sorry,” he whined, scrunching up his face in embarrassment. He shut his eyes tight and kept them closed.

“Don’t be. It’s cute.”

Eddie ignored that completely, focusing his mind back to the exercise. He added _keeping my eyes shut_ as one of the requirements for the movement in his head. After a quick prompt from Richie, they went through a silent fifteen repetitions of back extensions, and Eddie squeezed his eyes so tightly that he worried he was either going to give himself a headache or a set of wrinkles on his forehead. 

“We’re on to bigger and better things now.” The grin was plainly laced in Richie’s voice. “Open up those baby browns. I have to show you something.”

Blinking rapidly at the brightness that spilled into his eyes, Eddie squinted over at his instructor, who’d moved positions to sit cross-legged on his board. “Bigger things? Like what?”

“Paddling.”

“Paddling?”

“Important. Overlooked.” Richie nodded solemnly. “Can be the difference between catching a wave and totally fumbling.”

“Okay.” Eddie pushed himself up to sit on his knees. “Um, but before we do anything, can I have one of those drinks you mentioned before?”

“Oh, yeah! A break is just what we need right now.” Richie grabbed for his glasses and hopped up. He walked over to the cooler in a flash. “Do you just want water? I have a bunch of stuff.”

“Water is fine.” Eddie barely got the words out before Richie tossed a bottle his way. He fumbled a bit but managed to catch it.

“Fast hands.” Richie popped the top on a can of iced tea with a loud, wet _thunk_.  It sprayed a bit, and he slurped from it shamelessly.

“You’re a maniac,” Eddie grumbled, opening the bottle and taking a sip.

“Accurate.” Richie returned to his board and sat, folding his legs over themselves so they were reminiscent of a pretzel. “You’re doing really fuckin' great, y’know?”

“I’ve barely done anything, though.”

“That’s _total_  bullshit. Just try to picture this: laying on that board—” He waved his hands around to mimic the bobbing of an object floating on water. “—only the board is rocking all over the place from the waves and you have to be able to perfectly perform the same movements we’ve,” Richie air-quoted with a roll of his eyes “’ _barely done,’_ with only seconds to spare. It’s like Daniel-San, wax-on/wax-off type shit, okay? He wasn’t just painting the house and sanding the floor, he was learning how to block.” He guzzled from the can, tipping his head back.

Eddie grinned at the _Karate Kid_   reference, and at Richie’s passion and slight defensiveness. He was essentially defending Eddie against himself. “I wasn’t trying to be negative about what we’ve been doing, it just feels like I’m not doing anything worth praising and—”

“That’s on you, kid. From where I’m sitting, you’re doing amazing.” He licked at his bottom lip again, his eyes wandering, visibly thinking. "Hey, before I forget. Next week, wear something you'd wear if you were going to do Yoga."

Eddie smirked and furrowed his brow. "I've never done Yoga."

"Wear a pair of pants that let you be flexible," Richie said slowly, his eyes moving down to Eddie's little shorts. “Not ones that you’d wear on a tinder date to a water park.”

“They’re swimming trunks; we’re at the beach,” Eddie shot back. “And who the fuck goes on a tinder date to a water park.”

“Some people,” Richie muttered, shaking his head. “Also, I don’t know if you know this, but they make swimming trunks in a whole lot'a _lengths_.” He raised his eyebrows. “Those are shorty-short ones, and are manufactured solely to show off the goods.”

_How in the fuck did we get here? Is this his way of letting me know he’s attracted to me?_

Eddie chugged from his water bottle to put off responding for a minute. “Are you about done, or do you want to go off on a tangent about my shirt, too?”

“Yeah, I'm done. What happens on break stays on break.” Richie drank the last of his tea and crushed the can. He set it and his glasses down in the sand. “You ready to paddle?”

“Sure.”

“Just try to keep the staring to a minimum.” He laid on his stomach and grinned. “I know it’s tough.”

“Fuck you,” Eddie groused, matching Richie’s posture. “You’re staring at my shorts hard enough to make up a narrative about them.”

“Snap! We got a live one.” Richie extended his back and held his upper body off the board. He paddled in the air with both hands on either side of his body for a few seconds and lowered himself. “Now you paddle. Let’s go, shorty-short shortcake.”

Sighing, Eddie followed suit. He held himself up and limply paddled his arms, feeling extremely silly all the while. “I feel like a nerd doing this.”

“Then it shouldn’t be that different than how you feel all the time, no?” Richie cracked up laughing at himself. “God, I’m sorry but you made that so easy.”

Ignoring the stupid joke, Eddie threw himself into performing the repetitions the way Richie showed him. He kept his eyes closed and focused on the entire movement as he lifted, paddled, and lowered himself to the starting position. After eight full reps he opened his eyes. Richie wasn’t paddling. He’d returned the frames to his face and had his cheek leaning on his hand as he watched Eddie.

“Why are you staring at me?”

“I’m here to teach you and make sure you do things right.” His voice had a gentle quality to it, one that Eddie hadn't heard before. “Observing you is part of that.” He sat up and tapped his fingers against his knee. “Assuming you still want to put up with me next week, we’re gonna start popping up.”

“Even if I didn’t want to, I have to come back.” Eddie rested with his face flat against the foam.

“You have to? Who on God’s green Earth is forcing you to take surfing lessons?”

He sat up and looked past Richie at the rolling blue and white coils of the water. “No one’s _forcing_   me, but I’ve been challenged by someone to see this through to completion. If I quit, it’s just going to be a lot of lecturing and…stuff I don't want to deal with.” Eddie knew he’d already said too much, and he didn’t plan on elaborating.

Luckily, Richie didn’t ask any further questions. He just smiled. “Sounds like we’re going to get to be good friends, then.”

“Maybe,” Eddie mumbled, returning the smile.

 _Hopefully_.


	3. prepare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lesson 3

On the morning of his third lesson, Eddie woke up hoping for rain. The previous evening’s forecast predicted it, and the grey-tinged light that filtered into his bedroom window confirmed that a storm brewed beyond the clouds. He expected to get a call from the health club telling him that his appointment with Richie had been canceled.  _Expected_. The truth of the matter was that Eddie  _welcomed_  a downpour, because his anxiety over the morning’s agenda peaked the second he opened his eyes.

He feared that he’d be  _terrible_   at the more athletic aspects of surfing. Laying practically still and arching his back was no problem for him, but propelling his body up from a prone position and landing on his feet? How was that even humanly possible? The gravy on top of that pile of lumpy mashed potatoes was the knowledge that Richie would be watching and critiquing and (probably not, but maybe) judging him for sucking at it, which was almost too much for him to even think about.

Procrastinating on his bed in nothing but a towel, he checked the weather app on his phone obsessively. They boasted a thirty-five percent chance of scattered thunder showers: a low probability in the grand scheme of things. 

His prayers for a reprieve went unanswered. The phone didn’t ring, and Eddie waited until the last possible second to get ready. He threw on workout clothes just like Richie’d told him to the previous week—loose-fitting maroon joggers and a plain white tee—and drove his car along the most meandering route his GPS provided him.

The area of the shore they met at for their lessons was not a popular destination. It didn’t have a boardwalk and the bathrooms were minimalist, so it didn’t appeal to families with small children. They’d enjoyed privacy thus far, but Eddie knew it couldn’t last. As the weather got warmer and the summer came to bloom, one day he’d arrive to find that other people were there enjoying the sand. Strangers with eyes and ears and brains to think things about him and form opinions. He hoped against hope that the weather threat that morning would hold the spectators off, at least for one more week.

As he pulled into the parking lot, Eddie jerked the brake and narrowly escaped crashing into the guardrail surrounding the asphalt. He stopped short and caught his breath, idling his car like an idiot and staring at Richie. Clad only in a pair of low-slung tie-dye yoga pants, his instructor stood up on the back bumper of his Jeep, his pale flesh glowing in the murky light and his back muscles tightly engaged as he attempted to remove the surfboards from over the roof.

“Is he fucking kidding me?” Eddie muttered to himself as he got his shit together and parked a few spaces away.

Richie’s voice boomed as soon as the engine cut off. “Eddie Spaghetti arrives  _late,_ holy shit, did I walk into some kinda black hole— Or no wait, what do they call it?” He snapped his fingers. “Parallel Universe.”

“Stop calling me that.” Eddie slammed his car door and dallied alongside of it, stalling. He didn't want his eyes to be assaulted by Richie’s half-dressed body. “And I’m only two minutes late.”

“Still,” he called over, obliviously continuing his work wrestling with the bungee cords stretched over the closed soft-top of the box-like truck. “You were such a little dick to me about being late the first day. Figured you’d be dead before you showed up late for something.”

“You figured wrong.”

Richie hopped down to face Eddie. Those pink sunglasses were back. The pants he wore had a slight flare to the leg and they showed off the feathery dark hair adorning his chest and belly, as well as the deep V of his hip bones. Lightly muscled and gracefully lanky, the man wasn’t as skinny as he appeared to be when covered in clothing, and Eddie supposed that made sense. Surfers had to be in good shape. “You ready to rock and roll today?”

“As ready as I can be.” Looking away quickly, Eddie tried to focus up at the darker patch of cloud coverage that was inching their way, but his eyes kept flicking back to his instructor’s face. And his chest. “So…you’re just not going to wear a shirt?”

“Is that a problem for you?” Richie slid his tongue across his bottom lip and grinned. “We  _are_   at the beach.”

Eddie’s stare got caught on up on that mouth.  _I wish he wasn’t wearing those fucking glasses so I could follow his eyes._  “It’s not even hot out,” he groused with a little frustrated waggle of his head.

“We’re gonna  _get_   hot, though.” Richie’s response was not pronounced to be an innuendo, but it came across that way to Eddie anyway. “This is gonna be a workout.” He slid his glasses up into his hair and squinted up at the sky. “Hopefully the weather will hold so we can get-r-done.”

“You didn’t fucking just actually say get-r-done.”

“I said it in an ironic way, Eds.”

 _God, why do I think this person is attractive?_ “Can we get on with it?”

“Surely we can, oh impatient one. Would’ya grab the cooler out of the backseat?” Richie wrapped one of the bungee cords around all four surfboards so he could carry them at once. “I got these covered.” He walked towards the path without waiting for Eddie’s answer.

The Jeep was a two-door model, so Eddie had to open up the driver’s side and push the seat back to reach the blue and white rectangle. He noticed that Richie’d left his keys on the floor. The keychain was a bulky monstrosity: ancient-looking braided neon lanyards, multiple bottle openers, a large metal  _Pisces_  symbol, and a tattered pink, purple and blue flag that Eddie recognized.

_That’s a pride flag._

Eddie smiled to himself as he gathered the cooler. As far as he was concerned, one burning question about Richie had been answered for him. He hefted the hunk of plastic and marched towards the beach, his mind wandering back to things Richie’d said to him over the course of their short student-teacher relationship: the myriad of times he’d referred to Eddie as ‘cute;’ that comment about his shorty-shorts and what they represented.

_When I asked if I should request him when I book appointments, he said ‘you better.’_

The cooler was heavier than he thought it’d be, and it knocked into this knees with every step. When he hit the sand, he needed a rest and stopped short, placing it down in front of himself. A few yards away, Richie worked setting up the boards in a different formation than what Eddie came to recognize as their ‘normal positions.’ He noticed Eddie standing there and cupped his hands around his mouth, his shout sending his bare chest puffing: “You got that okay, kid? Sorry if it’s too heavy.” His wind-blown hair reminded Eddie of a flower he’d seen once: a deep-purple carnation.

“It’s fine; I’m coming.” He grunted under his breath on the lift and walked as fast as he could. Placing the cooler off to the side of their space, Eddie tried in equal measure to keep himself from panting and staring at Richie. “Did you wear contacts today? It’s super windy out.”

“Are you concerned that I’m gonna incapacitate myself again?” Richie smirked and took off his sunglasses, tossing them off to the side. “Au contraire,” he declared in a semi-decent French accent. He lifted the cooler lid and pulled out a wet ziplock baggie. It held his regular glasses, a small bottle of eye-drops, and a set of sport goggles. “I don’t usually wear these because they make me feel like someone is going to come running out of nowhere to shove me in a locker.”

Eddie grinned at that imagery and couldn’t help but wonder what Richie was actually like in high school. _Probably a troublemaker. Lived in detention._  “Are those prescription goggles?”

“Yup.” He dropped the baggie on top of the ice and let the lid snap closed. “If sand infiltrates my eyeball I’ll put them on.”

Nodding, Eddie perused their boards on the sand. “New positions?” They were set up beside one another instead of nose-to nose.

“Yeah, it’ll be too distracting to face each other when we pop up.” Richie cleared his throat after he said that, and continued, speaking faster. “So, you’ve got the beginning stuff down pat already. What we’re gonna do today is work through that together—arch, extend, paddle—in a sequence, and then we’ll get to the basics of popping up.”

“Okay.” Without waiting to be told, Eddie kicked off his flip flops and got onto this stomach. He’d managed to avoid gaping at Richie’s body since he hit the beach and he felt like he’d gotten off scott-free. There was nothing in front of himself to look at but sand and cloudy sky and endless dark water.

Richie dropped down onto his own board. “Fifteen of each, okay? Slow and steady wins the race. Remember to bring your mind back if it starts wandering away.”

“Ready whenever you are.”

“Vamos.”

They worked through the repetitions in unison. The only vocalization came from Richie when he prompted the transition between one exercise and the next. Eddie tried to keep his thoughts singular, but he got distracted by every little thing: the sound Richie’s chest made when it kissed the soft foam; the roaring of the choppy ocean; his own worries regarding the daunting new moves he’d have to perform as soon as they completed the familiar tasks. If he could have slapped his own mind in the face, he would have. Time passed and Eddie wasn’t sure how much, it could've been minutes or hours.

“We made it, kid. All done. You ready to pop?”

“Pop?” Eddie blinked at the sand. He pivoted his neck to look at Richie, who was already up off of his stomach and sitting cross-legged.

“Yup. Pop.” Richie flicked two of his fingers against his opposite hand. “Up.” His brow furrowed and he tilted his head like a confused puppy. “You okay today? You’re not as feisty as I’ve come to expect.”

Sighing, Eddie pushed himself up and sat on one ass cheek with his legs curled to the side. “I’m kind of nervous that I’m going to suck at this.” His shoulders slumped and he kept his eyes down, partially to avoid looking at Richie’s bare skin and partially because he was embarrassed to speak the words out loud. _I should wear a shirt that says: ‘I’m an insecure mess; ask me how.’”_

Richie turned and threw himself down on his back in a swift movement, positioning his body so that his face was perfectly aligned with Eddie’s downcast gaze. He lay there with his hair wildly spread out and his eyes searching all over Eddie’s face. “Why are you so hard on yourself?” His expression was earnestly concerned; the gesture sweet and strangely intimate.

Eddie tried to keep himself from smiling but he couldn’t help it. It was the closest look he’d gotten at Richie’s face. He had the thickest eyelashes Eddie’d ever seen. The freckles clustered around on his nose and cheeks were simultaneously tiny and large; some of them bled into one another to create tan patches of skin. He had twin pink half-moon marks on either side of the bridge of his nose. “Your hair is going to be all full of sand now,” he replied, avoiding the question.

“Good thing I had a shower put in at my place last week,” he joked, half-smilng up at Eddie. “Okay, fine, you don’t want to talk about it. I get it.” He used his shoulder blades to walk himself back to his board, rocking and contorting his upper body.

Huffing out a little laugh, Eddie watched him inch away. “You’re really weird.”

“Thank you for noticing.” He rolled over onto his belly when he got to the surfboard. Sand was stuck all over his shoulders and the backs of his arms. “I trained really hard to get where I’m at,” he insisted, like he was talking about earning a doctorate.

“Where’d you study?” Eddie grinned, playing along.

“Oh, I can’t tell you. Real black market under-the-table shit.” Richie leaned his chin on both his fists. “Enough about me, kid. You ever done a burpee?”

“The exercise? Yeah.”

“Then you already kinda know how to pop up. Watch me.” Richie adjusted himself and got into what Eddie knew as their first position, except instead of leaving his feet idle he pushed his toes into the end of the surfboard so his heels were up. “You want your feet like this, right on the edge, and your hands are here.” He placed both his hands flat, directly beneath his chest. “There’s more than one way to do this, so you’re gonna do whatever is most comfortable for you. But this is the way _I_   do it.” In one motion, he did a push-up and floated his legs forward like magic, landing on his feet. “Push off your toes and hands at the same time. As your legs come up you want to turn your hips so one leg is in front.”

_He makes it look so fucking easy._

“Can I try it?”

“You betcha. Go for it.”

Eddie mimicked Richie’s exact position and spread his fingers right under his ribcage. He took a couple deep breaths, preparing himself and ignoring the bongo beat of his heart. Pushing up a bit on his hands, he sprung off his toes and propelled his lower body forward, landing in a crouched position with his back knee against the foam. Not quite right because he wasn’t _standing_ ,  but it was close.

“That was great!” Richie was so thrilled his voice cracked. “I don’t even need to show you the other method; a couple more times and you’ll be perfect.”

They worked through a few more pop-ups together. Each attempt, Eddie waited for Richie’s count. He arched his back slightly and stared out at the ocean, following the swirls of foam that lapped up towards them to create the shore-line.

“One.” _One._ “Two.” _Two._ “Three.” _Three._ “Spring.” _Spring._  

He sprung a split-second after Richie’s ‘ _spring,’_ using his core strength to drag his legs forward and landing easily on his split feet, only a tiny bit wobbly. It was his fourth try, and the smoothest attempt he’d made.

“That was the best one, Eds!” Richie's excitement was barely contained and completely genuine. He would have made a fantastic cheerleader. “I can’t wait to bring you out there; you’re gonna rock the fuck out of this shit.”

Chuckling and a little flustered by Richie's enthusiasm, Eddie sunk down to his knees, preparing for another pop. “Do you talk that dirty to all your clients?” He knew he was Richie's first, but he wondered if he was still his only student.

Richie didn't give him any hints regarding his clientèle. Instead he went straight onto the defensive. “Hey, _you_  dropped the first f-bomb, okay? I was prepared to keep it profesh from day one.”

“What? I did not.”

“ _You did, too_.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “I remember because my brain was like ‘ _bing-bing-bing-bing_ he said fuck; you can say fuck; thank fuck for that.’”

Eddie had just opened his mouth to protest when a fat raindrop dropped onto his board. The back-splash smacked him on the forehead. A few more drops landed, peppering his skin with cool kisses.

“Oh, fuck.” Richie looked up at the rapidly darkening sky. “Game called on account of weather.”

The rain picked up speed and Eddie stood up, looking around at their set-up. “Should we grab everything, or—” A loud rumble of thunder cut him off.

“Here, just help me carry the cooler? We can hang in the Jeep and wait it out. See if it’s as _scattered_   as those weather jerk-bags tried to tell me this morning.” Richie grabbed onto one of the plastic handles and waited for Eddie to get the other.

The rain shifted from a sprinkle to a full-fledged downpour as they walked briskly back to the parking lot. A bright flash of lightening lit up the whole sky as Eddie hopped into the passenger side. His teeshirt and hair were already soaked through, and he wiped water off of his face with both hands.

Richie shoved the cooler in the back seat on his side of the car and grabbed an over-sized gray college sweatshirt to pull over his bare chest. He got in and shut the door. His wet hair appeared longer and grains of sand clung to it. “Want a drink?” He didn’t wait for an answer, leaning between their seats to dig around in the ice.

“Sure.” Eddie tried to ignore the fact that Richie's torso was super close to him. He looked down at his dirty bare feet and the space surrounding them. Spare change, enough sand to fill a sandbox, ripped open mail, and documents that seemed like they might be important just thrown on the floor of the car. “Shit, I forgot my flip flops.”

“And I forgot my shades,” Richie countered, reaching his arm back to hand Eddie a bottle of water. “They won’t melt.” He continued to hang himself into the backseat, grunting. “Gotcha.” His keys jingled as he righted himself. He stuck them into the ignition and turned on the engine. “So’s we won’t get all foggy up in here,” he explained as the vents came to life and blasted cool air into their faces.

Eddie just nodded down at his lap, because he didn’t know what to say. They were sitting close together in a quiet enclosed space. There was nothing to do but talk, and that sort of pressure sent him rocketing into awkward-land. _What do I say? ‘I saw your bi pride flag. I’m gay. Hi.’_   Another boom sounded off in the distance, and the responding lightening came faster than it did before. _The storm is right on top of us._

 “Soooo,” Richie hummed, long and deep. He sounded like he felt as awkward as Eddie did. “What kind of work do you do?”

“Oh, uh, I’m an adjunct professor.” Eddie opened the water bottle and took a sip.

“Get the fuck out of here. You look like you’d be a student.” He popped the top on a can of iced tea. “What do you teach?”

“Art History.”

“No shit? Are you an artist, too?”

“Oh, no.” Eddie shook his head, scrunching up his nose. “I’m not an artist or even a reliable _critic_.  But I could tell you if an ancient statue was Greek or Roman or Egyptian just by looking at it.” He gave Richie reluctant eye contact. “Totally pointless party tricks.”

“Don’t put yourself down. That’s super awesome.” Richie cleared some of the random junk from inside the cup holders in the center console and tossed it into the backseat. He placed his can down and motioned his hand to invite Eddie to do the same with his water. “You have a career. Like a real grown up.”

“Not really. _Adjunct_   denotes that I don’t actually have a real career.” The chair of his department was an ancient PhD with a personal vendetta against newly-hired fledgling professors like himself. “I’m hoping to get tenure eventually but the whole thing is a big bureaucratic popularity contest, and I’m younger so they overlook me.”

“How old are you?”

“About to turn twenty-seven.”

“Wow. I pegged you at twenty-three.”

“Yeah, people always think I’m younger.” He pointed at his face. “It’s the cheeks.”

It seemed like Eddie mentioning the chubby apples on his face gave Richie permission to study them. He grinned, fluttering his lashes a little bit. “How old do you think _I_  am?”

“Well, based on the way you dress and act, I’d say seventeen.” Eddie snickered at the open-mouthed glare Richie gave him. “But considering your pop-culture references alone? You’re at least twenty-five.”

“Eddie Spaghetti gets closest without going over!” Richie cupped a hand to his mouth, crowing: “Lisa, tell the man what he’s won. _It’s a brand, new, CAR_.” He hummed a jazzy little ditty reminiscent of game-show music and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.

 _I really can’t tell if he’s cute or annoying sometimes. He's both, I guess._  “Why? Why do you do it?”

“No one knows, Eds, don’t strain yourself trying to figure it out." Richie heaved a deep sigh. "You’re right, though. I’m twenty-six. Old enough to know better and young enough to not give a shit. Like James Dean or whatever.”

“Sounds more like Lindsay Lohan circa five years ago.”

“Ouch,” Richie groaned, clutching at his chest.

“Sorry. It was supposed to be a joke. I don’t think you’re really—”

“Nah, it’s okay. I’m totally aware that I have to ‘ _get serious,’ "_ he air-quoted _._ “My parents tell me that shit every time I talk to them, which is why I don’t really talk to them.”

“I don’t talk to my mother, either,” Eddie admitted softly. “Well, not _regularly_ ,  anyway.”

“A Jeep packed to the brim with mommy and daddy issues, huh?” Richie smiled with his tongue pressed up behind his teeth. “Kinky-kinky.”

“You’re such a stupid asshole,” he muttered under his breath, clapping a hand to his forehead.

“Facts,” Richie chuckled. He fluffed at his damp mop with one hand, avoiding Eddie’s eyes. “So, uh. Maybe we should exchange numbers.”

Eddie turned his entire body to the left so quickly he hit his knee on the gear shift. “Um, what?”

“In case of future inclement weather, so we can text each other if we need to cancel.” Richie gestured to the water streaming down the windshield. “We got some good time in today, but this is ri- _donk_ -ulous already. It’s like a goddamn typhoon.” He reached his long arm across the front seat ( _fuck he’s so close to my legs_ ) and popped the glove box, pulling out his phone. “Gimme them digits, Shorty.”

“Ew, okay. No,” Eddie snickered in spite of his disgust. “Don’t ever say that shit to me again.”

A longer, louder rumble of thunder made Richie raise his voice a bit. “Digits? Okay, noted.”

“No, you dipshit. Shorty.” The lightening flash that followed the thunder startled Eddie and he jumped, though he should've been expecting it.

Richie smiled at him. “Right. So no more Eds; Eddie Spaghetti; Shorty; Squirt. Got it.”

“ _Do you_ get it though?" Eddie crossed his arms over his wet chest and the fabric of his shirt clung to them. "I think you really don't."

“You might have to remind me a few more times; I'm a slow learner,” he said in a rush, keeping his eyes down at the phone, fingers poised. “I’m waiting here, kid. Lay it on me.”

Eddie let out a long breath and reluctantly rattled off his number. “Don’t save my contact as Eds,” he warned.

“Too late; what’s done is done.” Richie stuck his tongue into the corner of his mouth, fingers still flicking over the screen. He must've sent Eddie a novel of a message. “There. Check your texts.”

“My phone is in my car.”

“Here, why don’t I drive you over there, so you don’t have to get soaked again.” He popped the car into reverse and pulled around as close as he could to Eddie’s driver-side door. “If you wait a couple minutes, I’ll bring you your sandals.”

“You don’t have to do that. I can walk over—”

“Nah, it’s okay. I gotta go get the surfboards anyway.” Richie flipped up his hood and was out of the Jeep and running towards the path before Eddie could talk him out of it.

Stepping out into storm, Eddie cringed hard and threw himself down into his car as quickly as he could. The rain was heavy enough that spending barely three seconds outside left his arms and neck slick. He leaned over and fumbled his fingers underneath the passenger seat to get his phone and keys. Starting the car, he swallowed thickly and hesitated before opening up his messages. Richie’d typed for a while so he was expecting a bunch of gibberish.

 

**(10:16a) Unknown number: you were incredible today. i wish it didn’t rain so you coulda tried a few more pops but im also kinda glad it rained bc i got to know you a lil better. dont be down on yourself, you rock harder than an 80s metal band. i know youre probably thinking they dont rock hard at all, but fuck you they do**

 

A nuclear explosion went off inside Eddie’s chest and the fallout slid down to heat up his lower abdomen. _Fuck, what do I say back to that?_ A loud knocking right next to his head stopped his heart. He pushed the button to roll down the window.

“Here, kid.” Richie handed him the soaked flip flops. The light gray fabric of his sweatshirt was so saturated with water that it had darkened several shades. He looked like a drowned rat wearing pink sunglasses. 

“You sure you don’t need my help putting the boards back up?” A lower burst of thunder crackled far away. Eddie flinched at the cold water ricocheting and bouncing off the metal of his car door and splashing onto his face.

“Nah, I’m used to this kind of shit," Richie yelled, backing up. "See you next week?”

The sky lit up, flickering like a strobe light. “Yeah. Definitely.” He closed the window.

Saluting him with a toothy grin, Richie turned away to get to work strapping the surfboards to the roof.

Eddie flipped on his headlights and wipers. He backed out of the spot, driving slowly and thinking about what he was going to say to Richie's text all the way home. When he was warm and dry and changed into fresh clothes he set to replying. After several sputtered beginnings, he settled on a response.

 

**(11:34a) Spaghetti Man: The only reason I’m doing so well is because you’re a great teacher. I was really nervous about this whole thing but you’ve made it easy and fun, so thank you for everything. See you next week**

 

His phone buzzed almost immediately after he hit send.

 

**(11:34a) Richie: OMG you little sweetheart i fuckin cant with you. jeeeeezum crow**

 

**(11:35a) Spaghetti Man: Just being honest**

 

**(11:38a) Richie: yeah well, if were all being honest now, from the second I saw you I had to fight to keep this shit professional and im like slowly losing my resolve because you keep upping your cuteness**

 

Eddie stared at that message for a solid three minutes. He thought of a million and one responses: flirty ones; indignant ones; keymashes; ones that were just a string of emojis that made no sense. Ultimately, he didn’t say anything back. Three hours later his phone buzzed again.

 

**(03:12p) Richie: sorry if that was weird**

 

**(03:15p) Spaghetti Man: Not weird. I’ve been trying to figure you out for three weeks and I think today I did, at least partially**

 

**(03:16p) Richie: SNAAAAP whatd you figure out???**

 

**(03:17p) Spaghetti Man: :?**

 

**(03:18p) Richie: ok fine youre gonna play coy now. THATS COOL DONT WORRY ABOUT IT**

 

**(03:24p) Spaghetti Man: :)**

 

**(03:25p) Richie: fuuuuuuck im gonna have to hide my phone in the freezer to keep myself from bugging you arent i**

 

**(03:30p) Spaghetti Man: Sounds like a serious hardship. I’ll pray for you**

 

**(03:30p) Richie: you pray?**

 

**(03:31p) Spaghetti Man: No, but I’ll do it for you**

 

**(03:31p) Richie: :D :D :D**

 

**(03:32p) Spaghetti Man: Put your phone in the freezer, please. I have work to do and you’re super distracting**

 

**(03:33p) Richie: sorry. i wont bug you anymore. OH FUCK wait wear your wetsuit next time okay? I don’t wanna call it early but we might be ready**

 

**(03:35p) Spaghetti Man: Okay I will. BYE RICHIE**

 

**(03:35p) Richie: BYE SPAGHETTI MAN**

 

**(03:35p) Spaghetti Man: …..**

**(03:36p) Spaghetti Man: That’s what you have me saved as, isn’t it**

 

**(03:37p) Richie: OH SORRY I THOUGHT YOU WERE BUSY**

 

**(03:37p) Spaghetti Man: Fuck you. Change it to Eddie**

 

**(03:38p) Richie: hmmm i just got a message but i think its in like sanskrit or something fuck what does this even say**

 

**(03:39p) Spaghetti Man: ……**

 

**(03:40p) Richie: XD kid im CRYING rn**

**(03:45p) Richie: ok bye have a great week!!!**


	4. falling in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lesson 4

_It seemed like a choreographed dance, but they hadn’t practiced. Everywhere Richie touched him, he touched Richie: palm to ribcage; finger pads over inner thigh; hip against hip. Richie’s long nose skirted up along his jawline, smooth as satin. That move shattered their mirrored routine, and Eddie felt the room jerk beneath him like a punishment._

_“Are we on the water?” Eddie asked. (don’t ask him stupid questions.)_

_Those pink sunglasses obscured Richie’s eyes. “Where else would we go?”_

_Eddie reached out to pull the shades away, but they held fast; they were a permanent part of Richie’s face, and he smiled wide, giddy over Eddie’s struggle. (does he have more rows of teeth than he did a second ago?) Fruit-punch red lips that darted towards Eddie’s earlobe._

_Suction enveloping the plump flesh; it stung. “Richie,” Eddie choked, his voice raw gravel. Pressure on his ear. A cold breeze blowing over his bare chest. Gooseflesh originating at his jugular and spreading out in every direction. “Richie, don’t ever stop.”_

_“I have to stop. It won’t last forever, Eds,” Richie whispered, as a tinkling jingle rang out. It surrounded them, loud and grating and inescapable. Eddie felt it touching him. (can I feel sound?) His pulse quickened, but not out of pleasure._

_“What the fuck is that noise?” Eddie hooked his arm up over his head and squeezed his eyes shut tight. “Make it stop.”_

_“Can’t.” Richie’s fingertips skated down his side, slow and tickly. They stopped at the soft curve just above his hip and lingered there, tracing figure eights. “Only you know how.”_

_That synthetic music kept droning. Chimes, but they weren’t real ones. Computerized. (why do I know that?) He hated the sound more than anything in the whole word. It would ruin the moment and he just wanted it to sto—_

Eddie blinked up at the ceiling with burning eyes. “Fuck.” He groped both hands over the sheet beneath him until one of them gripped onto the hard, buzzing rectangle, and blindly slapped his fingers against it to silence the alarm. _Richie_. Sitting up poker straight, he looked around the room quickly. Richie wasn’t there; it was a dream. An impossibly vivid, tactile dream.

They’d been messaging each other off and on all week long; nothing serious, just tentatively flirty bullshit and a lot of jokes. Eddie held himself back from reaching out  _too_   much because he didn’t want to appear needy, but Richie always answered him back right away. He’d knocked out late the night before with the phone resting on top of his stomach as he waited for Richie’s response to his last text.  _And now you’re fucking dreaming about him. Fantastic._

He checked to see the messages he’d missed since he fell asleep.

 

**(02:06a) SPAGHETT: My summer students are so fucking unmotivated. I’m dreading their presentations on mon**

 

**(02:07a) Richie: are they all repeating the course? they prob failed on the 1st try bc youre too cute for them to pay attention. bet you get mad chili peppers on rmp**

**(02:10a) Richie: do you like chicken salad? were gonna work pretty hard tomorrow so i might bring food**

**(02:16a) Richie: did you fall asleep? im asking it like you can even answer if you did**

**(02:20a) Richie: ok sketti head nini**

**(08:04a) SPAGHETT: Ugh I’m too tired to work hard today**

**(08:07a) Richie: :X :( my fault. want me to get you a coffee?**

**(08:08a) Richie: lemme guess. something with whip and syrup, machiado or hetf you spell it**

**(08:10a) SPAGHETT: Wrong**

**(08:11a) SPAGHETT: Thanks but you don’t have to get me anything. See you soon**

Eddie tossed his phone onto the bed. He put on a pot of coffee and set to getting himself ready to leave. His short night’s sleep left him too tired to care about being clean—which meant that he was  _really_   fucking tired—so he skipped showering.  _Besides, if we’re going to be splashing around in the water and wearing wetsuits what’s the point?_

The wetsuit lived in his bathroom closet because he didn’t know what else he was supposed to do with it. His second experience dragging on the rubbery skin-sheath went smoother than it did the first, and Eddie looked like he was going masquerading as a superhero. In fact, he’d chosen the all-black option because it made him feel like Batman.  _Or Catwoman,_ he thought, being completely honest with himself.

It was a gorgeous sunny Saturday; the first day of the year that felt like honest-to-goodness  _summer,_ which made sense, considering that they were technically almost there.  _Ten days ‘til solstice; twenty-one ‘til my birthday. I wonder when Richie’s birthday is. Pisces. Could be March or late February._

He opened all the windows in his car and let the warm breeze ruffle his already messy hair. The drive to the beach was a happy, windy blur because Eddie was stuck in his head. When he got to the parking lot, his mood shifted into something gloomier. There were other cars parked that day: a mud splattered pick-up truck with surfboards propped in the bed that made him particularly nervous, and a couple of compact sedans.

Eddie felt his heart rate pick up speed and tried to squelch the accompanying nausea, but the acid in the pit of his stomach was already gurgling at the base of his esophagus.  _You’re going to be fine. Don’t freak out in front of him. He’ll think you’re a mess._

He pulled his car into the spot directly beside Richie’s Jeep. The top was down on the blue square of a ride, and their four boards were nowhere in sight. Richie must’ve arrived early to set up. He sat in the driver’s seat smoking and messing with his phone. “Hey-hey-hey, my favorite student.” He chucked the cigarette butt over the windshield and it bounced off the hood.

They both exited their vehicles at the same time and met in the middle behind them. “Am I your only student?”

“Semantics.” Richie wore a black cropped muscle tank with hanging fringe that barely covered his torso. The font of it was screen printed with a Pink Floyd album cover and the fringe pieces were adorned with white beads here and there. He had his prescription glasses on, and a pair of full-length green wetsuit bottoms stretched over his long legs. The state of his hair let Eddie know he’d skipped a shower, too. It was a curly disaster.

He smirked at Richie’s pale belly behind the dark tassels. Eddie found the look more cute than sexy, and Richie’s complete lack of giving a fuck regarding clothing intrigued him. He asked the question he’d _wanted_  to ask every single time they’d gotten together: “What the fuck are you wearing?”

“This is my roommate’s shirt; she’s sorta DIY.” He chuckled as he looked down at his clothes. “I have a fuck ton of laundry to do, like two weeks’ worth. I needed to borrow something.”

Eddie grinned, pointing right at Richie’s naval. “And you went with that?”

“You don’t like Floyd?” The question was delivered completely seriously, and it made Eddie laugh from deep in his belly.

“If you think the band is the issue I have with the shirt, then we should just drop the entire topic.”

“ ‘Kay.” Richie glanced over at the truck that Eddie’d been wary of. “Don’t leave anything valuable in your car today. I know those hooligans. Well not  _know-know_ , but I’ve seen ‘em around, and yeah.” He made a sour face and shook his head. “Just bring your keys and phone. Lock your doors.”

“ _Great_.” Eddie walked back over to the passenger side of his car to grab his stuff. Not only did he have to worry about being judged by people at the beach, he had to brace himself for getting robbed by them as well. He cocked a thumb at Richie's car. “What about you?” Anyone could’ve stolen anything they wanted right out of the topless Jeep.

“They know better than to fuck with me,” he stated evenly, twirling his giant keychain around a bony finger and not elaborating further than that.

They chatted amiably as they made their way down the path to the sand, and when they hit the open beach Eddie was relieved to see that Richie’d walked a decent distance along the dunes to set up their spot so they'd be isolated. There were only a few groups of people: a couple clusters of sunbathers lying on blankets and the pick-up truck surfers were all out in the water.

“Here, gimme your stuff.” Richie took Eddie’s phone and keys and married them with his own belongings, stuffing everything into a quart-sized freezer bag and hiding it inside the cooler. He nodded his head towards their boards.“You ready to get to work?” They were placed side-by-side with their noses facing the water, which appeared extra blue, like it absorbed the hue of the clear sky. The longboards they'd use in the water were in their normal position: plunged into the sand several paces forward and to the left of the ones that sat flat.

“I guess?” Eddie sighed and looked out at the kids surfing. They  _were_   kids, probably his student’s age or even younger.  _Why the fuck am I so worried about what they think of me?_

His worries must've been radiating out of him, because Richie hit the nail on the head with one swing. “Nervous about doing this in front of judgy eye-balls?” 

“Yes," Eddie moaned, crossing his arms and fidgeting with his elbows. "I feel like a complete idiot.” He avoided Richie's eyes.

“Do you think your students are idiots because they don’t know anything about Pompeii on the first day of class?”

Eddie's neck jerked up. He furrowed his brow and tilted his head to the side. “How do  _you_   know anything about Pompeii?”

Making a pouty face, Richie waggled his head nonchalantly. “I might’ve done a little research about ancient European art. No big deal.”

Smiling, Eddie lowered his chin. The inside of his ribcage felt incredibly warm. “No. I don’t think my students are idiots.”

“And you aren’t one either. You’re learning something.” He nodded resolutely as he knelt down on his board. “Yep. Learning something that you’re gonna be fuckin' killer at someday.”

“Thank you.” Eddie got down on his knees and let himself fall onto his stomach.

“Just the facts, Jack.” Richie walked his hands forward and sunk down like he was doing a push up, but stayed flat. The fringe on the bottom of his tank hung down on either side, exposing his pale lower back. He moved his hands to hold onto the sides of the board. “The lesson beginneth. These are the rails.”

Eddie moved his hands to the rails of his own board instinctively, matching Richie. “The rails,” he repeated.

“Uh-huh.” He slid his hands back to the center of the foam and spread them around on top of it. “This is the deck.”

Nodding, Eddie mirrored Richie’s movements. “Deck. Got it.”

“’All hands on deck.’ Write it on a post it note and put it on your bathroom mirror.” Richie tapped his palm against the deck of his board. “When you get out there, sometimes you might get nervous and want to grab onto the rails. You shouldn’t.” He took off his glasses and placed them in the sand beside his board. “Just remember ‘All hands on deck.’ Stitch it on a pillow if you have to.” He squinted over at Eddie, making his nose crinkle at the bridge.

“Okay.” Eddie tore his eyes away. His traitor of a brain reminded him about his lucid dream, and how good it felt to have that freckly nose bumping softly against his face. He was grateful that Richie removed his glasses, because he thought the evidence of those nocturnal fantasies might be tattooed on his forehead.

“If you’re ready, we’re gonna do a sequence," Richie continued, mercifully oblivious. "Arc-extend-paddle-pop. Over and over; as many times as we need to. I'm thinkin' fifteen. Then we’re gonna get in the water.”

“I’m ready,” Eddie mumbled, and he knew he didn’t sound ready.

“You sure?”

Lifting one of his shoulders in a half-shrug, Eddie said: “Not really, but fuck it.” He heard but didn’t see Richie’s smile:

"Fuckin' A. That’s the kind of can-do attitude I wanna hear.”

They worked through the moves, falling into a rhythm. Eddie didn’t need Richie to prompt him anymore, and he didn't have any trouble keeping his mind focused on the repetitions themselves. Their position was such that he couldn't see any of the other occupants of the beach, so the anxiety he felt when he first arrived diminished some. Each movement felt semi-natural to him, even the pop-ups. Every time he landed on his feet he felt more confident and less like a phony wearing a costume. Richie praised him sporadically throughout the workout, and Eddie tried to keep up the same level of energy, but his gas depleted with every pop-up he executed. The scorching sun was inescapable, and his dark wetsuit collected every single one of its rays. It was like doing jumping jacks inside of a microwave.

Richie’s voice came through like a sweet beacon of hope after their fifteenth round. “You want to rest for a minute, kid?”

“Fuck, God,  _yes_.” Eddie dropped back down on his chest and let his sweaty face  _thunk_   onto the deck of his board. He heard Richie laughing under his breath and the sound of the cooler opening. Something freezing cold touched the back of his neck, and he squealed involuntarily, “Ahh!” Without changing his position, he reached his hand back behind his head to take the object, which he knew had to be a water bottle. “Jerk,” he scolded weakly, unable to move.

“Just trying to help cool you off.” The top of a can popped. Richie's voice was earnestly apologetic. “I’m sorry I kept you up so late last night." And then, a soft, cautious: "I like talking to you.” 

He wanted to melt into a puddle and seep through the pores in the foam of his board. Instead, Eddie rolled over onto his back and willed himself not to look over at Richie. He sat up, facing away from the water. _Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!! SAY SOMETHING, DUMMY!_  Cracking the seal on the bottle, he stalled, chugging from it like he’d been wandering the desert for a week. “Me too,” he replied belatedly, his breathless voice coming out small.

The response he got was equally tiny. “Yeah?”

He turned his neck to look at Richie, whose bare face was tinged pink. Eddie didn’t know if the flush was a by-product of the sun, a result of the physical exertion they’d just gone through, or simply a symptom of speaking his feelings out loud. Whatever the cause, it looked lovely on him. “Yeah. I like talking to you, too.”

“If you ever think I’m annoying just tell me to fuck off, though.” He tucked his hair behind his ear and reached for his glasses.

Eddie grinned and didn’t answer.  _I think you’re annoying a lot of the time, but I kind of really like it?_  Rotating himself, he walked his feet around the board and slid on his butt until he was facing the water. He watched the surfers, who were so far out from the shore they were nothing but five colorful dots. “So, what do we do next?”

“Oh, right, we're supposed to be doing stuff." He bopped himself on the side of his head. "Let’s take the longboards and go down by the water.” Richie went over to the cooler first, rooting around inside it and pulling out the bag with his goggles. “If you laugh at how I look in these, I’m gonna drown you; just throwing that out there.”

Eddie heaved himself up to his feet. The muscles on his calves shook in protest. “The next time I call in to book an appointment I’m telling Beverly that my instructor threatened my life.”

Laughing heartily at that comment, Richie put a hand over his heart. “Hate to break it to you, but Bevvie would help me hide your body.” He pulled his goggles out of the bag and traded his regular glasses in their place. “Tell her whatever you want.” Jiggling the fingers of one hand under the fringe of his tank, he sent the fabric swinging. “She’s the person who made this shirt that you love so much.”

“Wait, the receptionist at the club is your roommate?” All that time, the sweet, bubbly and mildly sarcastic woman who’d been booking his appointments could’ve given him information about Richie.

“Yup. She got me this gig.” He pulled the goggles over his head and let them rest around the base of his neck. “I’m serious, though. Don’t laugh at me.”

Eddie rolled his eyes and held out his hand with his pinky up.

Richie moved a little closer and squinted at Eddie’s hand. The instant that he realized what the gesture meant was priceless. His entire face got taken over by the slowest, sappiest smile that Eddie’d ever witnessed. He hooked his pinky around Eddie’s and tugged, bouncing their hands for longer than was necessary.

Disentangling his finger from Richie’s, Eddie moved towards the two thick longboards that were perpendicular to the sand in an attempt to hide the crimson blush that he felt blossoming at the base of his throat. “Put your goggles on and let’s go.”

“Aye aye, cap’in.”

They yanked the boards free and headed down to the shoreline. Richie stopped a few feet behind where the low breakers hit and let his board drop. “Have a seat with me for a minute.” He plopped on his ass in the damp sand. “Have you ever used a boogie board?”

Eddie laid his board down and sat beside Richie. “Yeah, when I was a little kid.”

“Okay, good. We’re gonna go out there and paddle around in the shallow water like we're using boogie boards.” Richie pulled the goggles away from his eyes and moved them a fraction, adjusting them, muttering, “Fuck, I hate these things." They were darkly tinted and the rubber strap connected to them flattened his hair on the sides and pushed it up in the back. With them on his face he bore a minor resemblance to a yellow jacket.  "So, we’re not gonna try to catch a wave or stand up or anything. Just check it out. See how it feels.”

The beach wasn’t full by any stretch of the word, but there were enough people present for Eddie to be embarrassed.  _Two grown ass men boogie boarding with longboards._  His main concern of course was the gaggle of surfers—the hooligans—who were noisily enjoying themselves a good seventy yards diagonal from where he and Richie sat. They probably weren't even aware that Eddie existed.  _Still._   “Aren’t people going to think we’re losers for doing that?”

“They might.” Richie nodded, pursing his lips. “There might be one person out there who’ll  _always_    think you’re a loser no matter what you do.” He held up both his hands with his palms flat. “Big whoop. Does that  _make_   you a loser?”

“Yes?” Eddie grinned immediately after the words came out of his mouth because he knew it was ridiculous.

Richie grinned right back. “ _No_ ,”  he insisted, leaning to the side and tapping his shoulder against Eddie’s. “It doesn’t.”

“It doesn’t,” Eddie agreed reluctantly.

“Take me for example,” Richie said, his bug eyes watching the surfers. “The stuff we do together, the sequences? I do that a bunch of times before I get in the water every time I surf. Some people just go straight into the water. They might think I’m a loser or a noob because I need to prep on land before I get in, but I’ve been surfing since those dummies out there were in diapers.”

Eddie nodded, studying Richie’s face and feeling zero desire to laugh at his goggles or anything else about him. “Why do you do it?”

“To warm up; to center myself; because I like it. Buncha reasons.” He stood abruptly and held his hand out to Eddie. “Ready?”

“Yeah.” He accepted the lift, and Richie’s warm palm flush against his sent tingles shooting up his arm. “Yeah, I’m ready,” he whispered to himself. He bent to collect his board and walked towards the water slowly.

Richie showed no hesitation, and took three big strides into the shallow waves before diving forward and landing on his board with a  _smack,_ sending water and the fringe on the edges of his shirt flying _._ He paddled out a few yards and arced back around until he faced Eddie. “C’mon Spaghetti Head. What’cha waiting for, an engraved invitation?”

Eddie stood there, frozen, in up to his shins and holding the board under one arm. The low breakers were pounding the front of his legs. “Remember when you told me that if you were annoying I should tell you?”

“I meant if I was blowing up your phone too much.” Richie grinned, swiping his arms to propel himself back towards the shore until he floated a few feet in front of Eddie. “Let’s see it. You can do this; it’s easy. Move up a little towards me so you’re in front of the white waves.”

After walking in deeper like Richie told him to, Eddie placed the board on top of the water. He stepped one leg over and straddled it, letting his butt hit the deck first as he cringed hard, afraid he was going to topple over. It held underneath him and he leaned forward until he was cautiously floating on his stomach.

Richie called over, paddling around him like a circling shark. “Good job! Now work those arms.”

“I thought we came out here to 'just check things out,’” Eddie complained, feeling overwhelmed. “Stop rushing me.”

“Not trying to rush you; I'm just a spaz,” he mumbled, his tone softer. He got quiet and rowed himself parallel to the shore, gliding forward gracefully. "Act like I'm not here."

Working his hands like they were flippers, Eddie kept his back engaged the way he’d been practicing for four weeks. The board rocked and he felt his abs tremble involuntarily. His core did its own work to help keep him balanced, but he was afraid that he’d capsize at every little push of water beneath him. He felt most secure when he kept still and gave up on paddling for a moment. Floating on his stomach, he silently admired the way Richie moved, sleek as a seal, like he was born to be in the water.   _I want to watch him surf for real. I’ll be dreaming about that shit next._

The waves were calm that day, and the space between the far-out breakers and the sand—where the water chugged in gentle blue ripples—seemed a mile wide. Richie stopped pushing water and rested about ten feet away, facing the shore. Sitting up straight, he straddled his board with his legs dangling off on either side, and his torso rolled and contracted each time a ripple sent him bobbing. “No pressure, but you want to try coming out this far, Eds? We’re gonna have to eventually go  _way_   out.”

Eddie wanted to get closer to him, but the concern with falling off the board was at the forefront of his mind. He didn't know if he could get back onto it in deep water. “Can I still touch the bottom over there?”

Grinning, Richie shrugged. “How should I know? Wait.” The curve of his lips faltered. “You can swim, right?” The goggles obscured his eyes, but Eddie heard the fear in his voice.

 _He’s worried about my safety._ There was something confidence-boosting in Richie's caring. A rush of nervous energy spiked inside Eddie, he felt it course through his whole body. “I think you probably should have asked me if I can swim  _before_   we got into the water,” he teased, paddling himself closer to where Richie floated. He grew a little more comfortable with every swipe of his arms. It  _was_   easy, just like Richie told him it would be, and it definitely didn’t matter if people thought they were losers, because for once he didn’t  _care_.

“I’m guessing the answer to my question is yes?”

“Yeah, I can swim.”

“Good,” he sighed, shaking his head fast. “I know what to do if you ever get into trouble out here, but if you actually _did_   I think I'd be a wreck.”

“Do you know mouth-to-mouth?” Eddie asked with a smirk, as bold as he dared to be.

His words had the desired effect, and Richie’s jaw opened and closed a couple times before he answered the question. “I’m CPR certified,” he managed, that flush returning to his cheeks with a vengeance.

 _You’re the cute one, buddy._ Eddie put his all into paddling past Richie and turning in a wide arc around the embarrassed instructor. His movements were a little sloppy but he completed the turn and stopped his strokes when they were side-by-side. “Fuck, I’m really tired,” he admitted, laying his face against the deck.

“You never answered me when I asked you,” Richie muttered, still outwardly flustered by Eddie’s  _mouth-to-mouth_   comment. “Do you like chicken salad?”

“Oh, right. Yeah, I do.”

“Wanna go back and have a sandwich and then call it a day?”

Eddie  _didn’t_   want to call it a day. What he  _wanted_   was to spend the whole rest of the day with Richie, making little flirty comments and pinky-swearing and looking at the way Richie's pale belly peeked out from behind the damp fringe on that silly borrowed shirt. “Sure.”

“Cool. Race you!” Richie took off like a shot, paddling like mad for the shore.

“Cheater!” Eddie gave chase, pushing water out of the way for all he was worth, but he was no match against the dream team of Richie’s long arms and years of experience.

Richie hit the shore first and waited for Eddie in ankle-deep water. "COME ON, EDDIE SPAGHETTI! ACT LIKE THERE'S A SHARK BEHIND YOU!"

"Don't yell  _shark_  at a beach, you asshole!" Eddie's right hand hit the bottom and he realized that he was almost out. He stood up and dragged himself the rest of the way, unable to fight the exhaustion. When he made it to Richie, he got his hair ruffled as a reward. 

"You did awesome out there."

"I barely did anything," he panted, "and you beat me by like four minutes getting out."

"Hey, some people fall right off their first time trying to float. You didn't fall off once." He took Eddie's board off of his hands and placed it on top of his own before hefting them both up against his chest.

"You don’t have to carry my board.” The longboards they used in the water were heavier and thicker than the ones Eddie'd gotten used to on land and he was grateful for the assist, but it felt intimate.  _Would he do that for any old student, or just for me?_

“Sure I do; it’s my fault you’re tired.” Richie didn’t wait for a response, he motored away back towards their spot.

 

They relaxed quietly on their land boards, drying off in the sun and eating a very early lunch. Richie inhaled his sandwich in two minutes flat. The chicken salad tasted surprisingly good, but Eddie was so hungry he would have eaten pureed shoe leather smeared on a bagel. He swallowed a mouthful before breaking the comfortable silence. “So, you can cook, too? What can’t you do?”

Richie was sprawled out on his back, looking up at the sky without his glasses on. “That’s a loaded question. There's lots of shit I suck at.”  The goggles left pink indents around his eyes. “And I can’t  _cook._ I can make cold salads and burned pancakes. Maybe eggs and bacon on a really good day.”

Eddie saw a brief flash of an image in his head: Richie making breakfast for him after they spent the night together. “This is really good, is all I’m trying to say.”

“Thanks,” he replied low, barely vocalizing. The praise seemed to embarrass him. He cleared his throat. “I think you’re gonna be up for trying to catch a wave next time.”

“That means you were right all along,” Eddie mused, shoving the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth.

Richie turned his head quickly and squinted over at Eddie. “What was I right about?”

He held up his hands helplessly, still chewing. When he could speak he said, “You guessed that it’d take five lessons for me to surf.”

“Oh, yeah.” Richie huffed a little breath and went back to staring up at the sky. “Pretty soon you’ll be able to do it on your own. You won’t need lessons anymore.” There was no discernible emotion in his voice, but he chewed on his bottom lip after he said it.

“I guess not,” Eddie replied softly. There were so many things he wanted to say instead, but he couldn’t bring them to the surface.

“Alright, I should get my shit together.” Richie hopped up and got Eddie’s keys and phone out of the cooler. Handing them off, he smiled sheepishly and flicked at his fringe. “I need to go do laundry like it’s nobody’s business.”

Eddie helped him carry his stuff back to the parking lot on jelly legs. The work they did that morning left him rubbery, like he’d been through boot camp with a trainer. His drive home was a repeat of the trip there: autopilot-brain and muscle memory were the only things guiding him. After he peeled off his wetsuit and scrubbed himself clean, he fell naked onto his bed, phone in hand.

 

**(11:46a) SPAGHETT: Maybe sometime when I don’t need lessons anymore we could just go surfing together**

**(11:48a) Richie: EIENX9H KK3MPW.DLSSJ203JW**

**(11:48a) SPAGHETT: Is that a yes? ;P**

**(11:49a) Richie: that was an anuerism. but hard yes, def**

**(11:50a) Richie: btw i checked you out on rmp and your students lysm it gives me the fuzz**

**(11:52a) SPAGHETT: Stalker. How'd you get my last name?**

**(11:53a) Richie: bevvie. she also told me your bday is 7/2. sooooooon**

**(11:54a) SPAGHETT: … unfair advantage, you having access to my vital information**

**(11:58a) Richie: fine my last name is tozier and my bday is 3/7. stalk away, creep**

**(11:59a) SPAGHETT: Said the stalker**

**(12:00p) Richie: ..as he lurked outside your window and set up camp in the bushes**

**(12:01p) SPAGHETT: …**

**(12:02p) Richie: XD XD put your phone in the freezer so you wont be tempted to stalk me too hard, tricks of the stalker trade. giving out lessons you dont have to pay for rn**

**(12:04p) SPAGHETT: BYE RICHIE**

**(12:05p) Richie: bye eddie spaghetti kaspbrak, certified HOT professor with chili pepper ratings**

**(12:05p) SPAGHETT: I don’t even know what people say about me on there. I never check it**

**(12:06p) Richie: lookit that, your words say goodbye but your actions say you cant get enough of me**

**(12:34p) Richie: brrr its so cold in this freezer**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Richie is wearing [this ](https://www.google.ca/search?q=pink+floyd+fringe+shirt&client=opera&hs=cAU&dcr=0&tbm=isch&source=iu&ictx=1&fir=mw7uII6dE7DpAM%253A%252C-vgNF9tJF1A69M%252C_&usg=__Mr5L8UwtewqejHue4mTOYVXOLyU%3D&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjrlp68-JDaAhWDmlkKHT8RCcoQ9QEIKzAA#imgrc=6vzqil65P9RgGM:) shirt
> 
> rmp - rate my professor  
> Eddie can't see his contact name on Richie's phone, I just think it's very Richie-like and funny to change it


	5. anticipation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dinner with the boys and lesson 5

The night before Eddie’s fifth lesson, his friends convinced him to join them for dinner at their favorite bistro. His body sat at the table, but his mind had its own plans, denying him the ability to listen to Bill and Stan’s conversation about work woes. He really wanted to spend time with them—he missed them—but underneath those feelings crept the equally strong desire to waste the entire night messaging back and forth with Richie; an urge born more out of nervous excitement than anything else.

The possibility that he’d one day  _actually surf_   had seemed like a pipe dream when he signed up for lessons, and the dream would become a reality for him in fourteen short hours. There were a million questions he wanted to ask, but his instructor seemed to be too busy to answer him (or even view his texts) that evening. His hopeful hands groped over the touch screen anyway. 

 _C’mon, check your messages, dipshit._  

“Quit obsessing over your phone.” Stan reached his slim arm underneath the table to deliver a light smack to Eddie’s knee. “Be present with us. We never get to see you anymore.” His words were delivered gently, softened further by the candle-lit ambiance of the restaurant, but they stung Eddie more than if Stan’d just come out and called him a bad friend. 

“Sorry.” Eddie quickly flipped the screen flat against the table cloth.

Bill—Eddie’s oldest friend, and his earliest ill-fated crush in the series of hopeless crushes that made up his adolescence—tipped his chin towards the phone, not missing a trick. “Who is he?” He grinned and nudged Stan with his elbow.

Sighing with all the breath his lungs could hold, Eddie leaned back in his chair and pretended to look for their waiter. “Nobody; it’s not important.”

“Are you nervous about tomorrow?” Stan closed his menu and leaned his chin on his hand, his hazel eyes narrowing on Eddie’s face.

“A little bit.” He’d kept his friends abreast of his progression throughout his lessons, but he’d still yet to utter Richie’s name in their presence, because he knew how they’d react.  

“ _Eddie, you always do this.”_

 He didn’t want to taint his honest desire to learn the art of surfing with his crush, even though the drive to succeed was all wrapped up in it. “Everything I’ve read says that it’s normal to wipe out a lot at first. I’ve been practicing my pop ups at home so hopefully I’ll—” Eddie shook his head and played with a lock of his hair, embarrassed with himself. “I went to Sports Authority on impulse and bought a surfboard after class on Wednesday. It was absolute fuckery getting that thing on the roof of my car by myself.”

Bill took a long swallow of his beer. He rotated the glass on the table while he spoke. “Does the surf-guy think you’re ready?”

The words slipped out before Eddie thought better of it. “He thinks I’m going to be ‘fuckin’ killer’ at it.” He tried not to smile, but his lips curled up anyway.

Bill and Stan exchanged a quirky-eyebrows look. A look that made Eddie’s heart stutter.

“Fuck, you were right.” Stan pouted at Bill and refolded his menu, fiddling with it. “Why didn’t I see this coming?”

“Because you’re a silly man.” Bill held his palm flat to Stanley with a smug smile on his face. “Pay up.”

“Billy, I don’t carry cash.” Stan slapped his hand away with a grin. “I’ll pick up your tab.”

Irritated but unsurprised, Eddie rubbed a hand down the side of his face and glanced back and forth between his friends. “What was the bet?” He asked the question flatly, because he already knew the answer.

Bill gave Eddie a pitying look. “That you were going to fall in love with your instructor, just like that time you were a gym bunny for ten minutes because you had a crush on that crossfit trainer.”

“First of all, I’m not IN LOVE with him. We barely know each other.” Eddie sat up straight, dropping both of his hands into his lap. “Second...this isn’t like that.”

“’Isn’t like that,’” Bill echoed, pursing his lips. “Care to elaborate?”

“I think he actually likes me back.”

 _I know he likes me back. He researched fucking ancient European art for chrissakes._  

“You  _think_   he likes you back? How gay is he?” Stan scrunched up one eye and bobbed his curly head. “On a scale from Channing Tatum to Adam Rippon.”

Eddie snickered and rolled his eyes. “He has a bi pride flag on his car keys. Is that gay enough?”

“Eddie, we’re not trying to be negative,” Bill promised, leaning forward a bit in his chair. The candlelight danced in his ocean-blue eyes and sent his auburn hair shimmering like copper. “We just don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I know it probably feels like you’ve heard this one before, but this is different. I mean, he hasn’t come out and said ‘I like you, let’s go out sometime,’ but I think it’s partially because he’s new at the job and wants to keep it professional.” Eddie rambled, picturing Richie in his mind; the little things he said and did, they couldn’t be just a misreading of the situation on Eddie’s part _. Could they?_    “He asked for my number in case of lesson cancellations but he acts like its only functional use is to text me. And he tells me I’m cute all the time.”

“That’s all? Hello?” Stan raised his hand. “I text you. Anyone with a pulse can tell that you’re cute.” He shrugged as he lifted his wine glass and chuckled with his mouth against the rim. “Do you think I’m into you, too?”

“This is why I didn’t want to tell you guys,” Eddie hissed as their waiter came to take their orders. Each of them put in for their usual selections, handing back the menus they hadn’t needed to consult.

Bill watched the man leave their table, his voice going soft. “I hope he  _does_   like you, but I’m with Stan on this one. He might just be friendly.” He was quiet for a minute, clearly stuck in his thoughts. They played out on his solemn face, his eyes unfocused and tracing the lines of the table. He raised his eyebrows and grinned suddenly.  “Oh wait, here’s an idea: ask him to come to your birthday thing.”

“Yes!” Stan pointed his glass at Eddie. “Do it. Do it tomorrow. Then text us and tell us what he said. Word for word.”

“Fine,” Eddie grumbled, his confidence wavering. His friends meant well, but their concern made him doubt every interaction he’d had with Richie. Were they right? Was Eddie just an attention starved gay idiot with a rampant imagination? “I’ll invite him, but I’m not reporting back to you. We’re going to O’Neil’s, right?”

“Where else?” Bill asked the question rhetorically. Their friend Mike had grown up to own the Irish pub that’d been their collective stomping grounds as undergrads. His unrivaled work ethic was the only reason he wasn’t present at the table that evening. If he’d come out with them, he’d have been the compassionate one, jumping to Eddie’s defense. “Free beer, darts, and our only chance to get face-time with Mikey since he’s married to the place. There’s also a huge surprise heading your way.”

Eddie’s expression crumbled against his will, edging his cheeks into his peripheral vision. He loathed surprises.

“Don’t make that face.” Stan topped-off Eddie’s barely touched glass of red. “It’s a fun surprise,” he insisted.

“No such thing.” Holding the glass delicately by the stem, he took a long swallow. A sinking feeling in his gut took hold, digging its heels in to stay a while. He had an inkling that the most unwelcome surprise of his birthday party would be realizing that he was wrong all along. Maybe Richie  _was_   just a friendly person. At least he still had two weeks to prepare for it.

* 

**(07:23a) Richie: heyyyyy sorry I didnt answer you back last night. unforeseen drama**

**(07:24a) Richie: not MY drama thankfully but yanooo ima good friend just fyi**

**(07:25a) Richie: youre gonna kick so much ass today you should change your name to sonny chiba. In FACT**

 

**(08:03) sonny chiba (eds): That guy from kill bill? What's 'In FACT' supposed to mean?**

**(08:07) sonny chiba (eds): What was the drama?**

 

**(08:07) Richie: bevvie and her dude broke up. guy was a toolbag, but shes sad over it so i had to be her clown**

 

**(08:08) sonny chiba (eds): Fitting. A good backup plan for your future imo**

 

**(08:09) Richie: call me krusty. see you in a bit, kid**

 

 

The sand was free from casual beach-goers but the surfers were out in the water in droves, taking advantage of everything the hazy, sticky morning had to offer them. The weather report confirmed that a tropical storm powered its way up the coast. It sent dizzying waves to their beach; waves that were larger than what was average for nine AM tides. They whipped and surged, the foam released in their wake fizzling like alka-seltzer tablets in tap water. 

 _“Bad conditions for a first try,”_   Richie’d muttered as he surveyed the swells, more business-like than Eddie’d thought he was capable of being. He lacked a vibrancy that day, so much so that Eddie wanted to ask what was wrong, but held back. Not only was Richie uncharacteristically serious, he'd also dressed himself in the most normal thing Eddie’d seen him wear—wetsuit separates—though the colors were mismatched: green bottoms and a black top with red piping.

Eddie reverted to a level of shyness he hadn’t felt since lesson one, as though speaking the truth aloud to his friends and experiencing their trepidations had somehow both transmitted his feelings to Richie and given him Richie's answer to his internal questions. He knew Bill and Stan were only looking out for him, but their opinions set Eddie on an insecure roller coaster ride of self-doubt. 

Seemingly oblivious, Richie'd prompted them through their sequences without much discussion—they didn’t need to talk about anything anymore, because Eddie knew exactly what to do. When he was satisfied with the warm up, he took Eddie to the shoreline and sat him down in the sand. They only brought one of the longboards with them.

Richie's goggle-eyes watched the breakers. "Surfing is mostly waiting," he began, soft, like he was telling Eddie a deep, dark secret that he'd never spoken to another soul. "Anticipating the wave, getting yourself into the right position, and then relying on muscle memory and instinct to kick in."

Nodding, Eddie blinked over at Richie's angular face, admiring his full lips and waiting for them to part.

"I have really bad eye sight," he continued, pulling his goggles off his face to let them hang around his throat. "Hilariously bad." Squinting down at the sand, he sighed. "Even with goggles, my peripheral vision and depth perception are both garbage. I know you can probably see perfectly, but that's how I'm going to teach this stuff to you: like you're as blind as a bat, like me."

"That’s a misnomer, and insulting to bats,” Eddie informed him with a little smirk. “Bats have perfect vision.”

"Don’t sass me,” Richie grinned, biting down on his lip. “When we go out there, you're going to be paddling a lot. You have to get yourself behind the wave, wait for the right moment, push yourself forward fast, and pop up when the wave starts to crest." He rubbed his palms back and forth in front of himself. "For the first couple I'm going to push your board forward for you so you can get the hang, but then I’ll let you figure it out.”

“Okay.” Eddie watched the waves crashing. They were enormous compared to the previous weeks’, and his belly gurgled over the thought of falling off into one of them. He envisioned whacking his head on the board and sinking to the sea floor as salt water invaded his lungs and weighed his body down like it was filled with lead. “Do you think I’m going to get thrown around a lot?”

“Oh damn, fuck.” Richie slapped himself in the forehead. “I just realized something. I didn’t teach you about— Shit.  _Man_ ,  I shoulda did it last week when we were just dicking around.” He shook his head, clearly annoyed with himself. “Turtle rolls.”

“Turtle rolls?” Eddie grinned and creased his eyebrows. “Sounds like the world’s worst sushi.”

Chuckling, Richie dragged his goggles back over his eyes. “Sit tight ya little comedian. I’m gonna get my board.” He jogged back to their spot to grab it, and came back quickly with a spring in his step that’d been missing before. Plopping himself back down beside Eddie, he cleared his throat and pulled his goggles off again, letting them dangle like a necklace. “Hey, do you have anything important going on tomorrow?”

Eddie’s mouth dropped open. He tried to force his tongue to form a word, any word, but it was frozen.  _Is he going to ask me…_  “Uh, no,” he managed, worked hard to keep his voice measured. “I was going to clean my apartment and go over my lesson plan but I’m not like  _doing_ —   Why?”

The smile on Richie’s face was squished by his pressed together lips. He shook his head a little and closed his eyes. “I know what that must've just sounded like, and now I feel bad.” He leaned a little closer and looked at Eddie without squinting. “You’re so fucking cute,” he breathed, his eyes on Eddie’s lips. “Did you think I was—”

“You're really presumptuous. I didn't think anything,” Eddie answered quickly, grateful that Richie couldn’t see him clearly with bare eyes. He knew he had to be turning a shade of purple.

“Okey-doke. Anywaaay.” Richie turned his head back to the water, fluffing his hair with one hand. “I was only asking because you’re going to be really sore in your hips and arms and shoulders tomorrow. You might want to cancel anything that involves, y’know, moving around.”

Swallowing hard, Eddie tried not to cringe.  _Bill and Stan were right. I read into everything._ “I think I'll manage.” He steeled himself and sat up a little straighter. “What’s a turtle roll, anyway?”

“It’s a way to get yourself under a wave, so you don’t get thrashed around like a rag doll.” He returned the goggles to his face, taking extra care to make sure they were in the right position. “Basically, you flip the board upside down and hang out underneath it.”

“Underneath the water?” The idea of that made Eddie nervous. He had a feeling the worst part of surfing was going to be getting water up his nose and having to rely on his ability to hold his breath in a split-second’s notice.

“Yup. I’m thinkin’ we’re gonna spend a lot of time on that today. You might end up being too tired to actually try to catch a wave.” Richie stood up and lent a hand to help Eddie to his feet. “Let’s get out there.”

They entered the water together, and Eddie mounted his board easily in the shallows, paddling beside Richie until they were just behind the surge zone of the far breakers. The residual ripple bobbed their boards up and down.

“I’m gonna demonstrate a roll for you right now; just hang back.” Richie waited for the next wave to appear and paddled forward quickly. When the nose of his board hit the center of it, it crested. He bailed out over the left side, pulling the board upside down so that the only visible part of his body were his fingers gripping onto the rails. Once the wave cleared, the board flipped over and Richie climbed back on top of it in one smooth motion, hair dripping. He shook his head like a dog and called back without turning around, “You got that Eddie Spaghetti?”

“Uh. Maybe?”

“I’ll do one more. Watch me. When the wave gets foamy at the top, I flip the board, hang onto the rails and count out like four seconds before I come back up.”

Eddie watched him go through the entire process a second time.  _He makes it look so easy._   “I'm going to try one.” He didn’t wait for Richie to tell him to go, he just started paddling frantically towards the next wave, and the size of it made his heart pound. When it began cresting he thought it might swallow him whole. He fumbled on the flip and lost his grip on the board. The wave surged and he got sucked under the water for a few seconds, the current vibrating his body in four different directions.

Coming up sputtering, he blinked the salt out of his eyes, gasping for air and kicking his legs to keep his head above the surface. The water in his mouth infiltrated the sinus holes at the back of his hard pallet, making them ache and burn. The sensation made him want to sneeze, but he snorted instead and spat with a groan. “Fuck. That sucked.” His board had up and left him stranded, and he couldn’t see Richie anywhere. “Richie?!”

“Kid, I’m right here; just grabbin’ your board before it goes for a voyage across the Atlantic.” His voice came from somewhere behind Eddie. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He spun himself around until he saw Richie paddling back to him, towing the other board by its ankle strap. “Just drinking the ocean and feeling stupid. I couldn't hold on.”

“It was a good first try,” Richie insisted, still encouraging, even when Eddie sucked. "Longboards are better for beginners when it comes to popping up but they're kinda clunky with everything else."

Turtle rolls turned out to be the most difficult aspect of surfing Eddie’d encountered. The foam top of the longboard was too thick for his small hands to easily hold onto. His anticipation of getting the timing just right wracked his nerves and made him second-guess himself each time he approached the wave. It took five tries for him to complete a successful roll, and Richie lost his shit so hard cheering over it that some of the closer-by surfers volleyed back a few mocking  _woo-hoos_. 

"Ignore them; you're doing amazing." He wanted Eddie to keep practicing until the move felt natural. After twenty fully completed rolls, Eddie was bone-tired and his lungs felt fuzzy inside from holding his breath. “Alright, I’m calling it. That’s all we got in us today.” Both Richie’s tone and his choice of phrasing were sweetly soothing. As though they weren’t stopping because Eddie was a floundering mess; like Richie really believed calling it quits was for both of their benefits. “We’ll worry about catching a wave next week.”

They were both quiet as they left the water. Eddie helped Richie gather and move the equipment to the parking lot, and then helped him tuck everything into the topless Jeep. Stan and Bill’s words danced around in the forefront of his mind while a chant pounding through his head.

_Ask him. Ask him. Ask him. Ask him you fucking chicken-shit._

“ ‘Kay, see ya next week?” Richie leaned against his driver’s side door and jingled his key-chain, flipping it around in his hand. He'd traded his goggles for his glasses and his damp hair was a curly mess from being dunked under water. The apples of his cheeks were pink, and Eddie wondered if he'd forgotten his sunscreen that morning. “Hope you’re not totally wrecked tomorrow. Quick paddling is rough on the front of your hips at first.”

Eddie hovered beside the Jeep, making no move to walk back over to his own car even though he couldn’t wait to get home and out of his wetsuit. “Yeah, I think I’ll be okay.” He rolled his shoulders, grimacing. “I’m already a little sore though.”

“Get someone to give you a massage,” Richie offered simply.

Scoffing, he rubbed a hand against the back of his neck. “Yeah, they’re lining up to do it,” he muttered sarcastically.

“If they’re not, they’re dumb,” Richie stated with a little smile. “Or _maybe_  they’re not dumb; maybe they’re only holding back,” he continued slowly, his eyes raking up and down Eddie’s face, “because they’re working the first job they ever gave a shit about in their entire life, and they don’t want to fuck it up by picking up on the first cute guy that they’re supposed to be teaching.”

Rendered totally speechless, Eddie huffed out a breath and savored experiencing the whoosh of his stomach falling down out of his body and hitting the ground. He felt the smile blinking off and on his face but he had no control over it. That was that. It was out there. Richie had acknowledged that he liked Eddie in his own weird, roundabout way. "That was a  _really_  specific reason for guys not giving me massages," he said quietly.

Richie raised his eyebrows and grinned. " _Guys who know mouth-to-mouth_   not giving you massages," he whispered, nodding.

“Guys who are CPR certified,” Eddie corrected him, teasing.

“Yup,” he agreed, popping the P. “Those guys.”

Eddie’s feet started shuffling on their own, backing him up a couple paces and directing him towards his car.  _No wait, you forgot something._ He stopped moving."Um. I wanted to ask you—and after what you said, about not fucking up your job, just know that it isn’t like, a  _thing_ or anything—if you want to maybe do something extra-curricular with me next-next weekend?”

"That was the cutest delivery of an invitation in the history of the world." The expression on Richie’s face reminded Eddie of videos he’d seen online. _Unlikely animal friends_  reaction videos. Sappy. _Giddy_.  “Next-next weekend meaning two weeks from today? That's your birthday, right?”

Nodding, Eddie knew he was returning the same silly, goofy smile back to Richie. “One of my friends owns a bar. It’s just going to be darts, beer, a couple of my friends. Nothing big.”

“Wouldn’t miss it, Eds.” Richie opened his car door. The soft smile didn't leave his face. “Text me the address later, okay?” He climbed in and started up the engine, sending upbeat indie rock blasting across the whole parking lot.

“I WILL," Eddie shouted over the music. He started inching over to his car, unable to take his eyes off Richie's head. He couldn't feel his feet and floated, not walked. “BYE, RICHIE.”

" 'TIL WE MEET AGAIN CHAMPION TURTLE ROLLER!" The Jeep backed up, and Richie honked his horn like a maniac as he drove out of the parking lot.

Eddie didn't remember opening the car door and sitting down, but the phone was already in his hands.

 

**Eddie, Stan and 2 others**

**(10:27a) Eddie: FUCK YOU GUYS, YOU WERE WRONG AND I WAS RIGHT**

 

**(10:45a) Stan: It was bound to happen one day, I suppose.**

 

**(10:54a) Bill: lmao i thought u werent reporting back to us**

 

 **(12:32p) Mike: late to the party but huh? and fu too buddy and XD XD XD all at the same time**  


	6. driving over speedbumps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> game called on account of pain - a brief intermission from our regularly scheduled narration

The sky was pitch dark when he opened his eyes. Too fucking early for him to rise from an unconscious state naturally; it was the pain that woke him. Searing pain, like he’d whacked his face a good one against a steel beam—not that he’d ever done that, but he imagined it’d feel like total shit. He could probably come up with analogies describing how it felt all morning long, but none of them mattered. Richie knew better.

His head would be in agony for an as-yet-undecided period of time. Might be a few hours; might be two days. Darkness, quiet, solitude and rest were the only remedies he’d found that were sure things. Since he thrived off of making noise and eliciting responses from others, it almost seemed like Richie’s body concocted a tailor-made punishment to kick his dick in the dirt when he got a little too big for his britches.   

He called it the great big excruciating wait-out. The I-should-move-to-Alaska-where-they-have-month-long-periods-of-night. The sit-as-still-as-you-can-and-pray-for-a-sudden-total-eclipse-of-the-sun bullshit that popped up to say ‘hey’ to him during any decently stressful period of his life. And stress, yeah, he had stress oozing out of him for the first time in years.

The teeshirt he wore to bed was soaked with sweat, and he couldn't tell if the migraine was responsible or if was simply due to the shitty power save setting on their apartment’s central air unit. He peeled off the offending garment and tossed it on the floor to mingle with the other junk beside his bed. The air against his bare skin gave him a brief reprieve from focusing on the pain in his head, allowing him to consider a few things beyond himself.

_I have to be at the beach in three hours. No way, José. Ain't happening._

Maybe he was pulling the trigger early, but he figured he had an icicle’s chance in hell making it through a whole lesson without dying. The desire to see Eds—even the knowledge that he wouldn't have another chance to see him for an entire week—wasn't enough to talk himself into toughing it out.

Eddie, cute and hot at the same time, and the first person Richie’d ever met who incited equally strong desires to fuck him, protect him and just sit quietly holding his hand. He came back every week dressed up in his little black wetsuit, determined as fuck and willing to  _work for it._ Trying his very best, even when aspects of surfing were hard for him. There were a bunch of reasons why Richie fell a little deeper for Eddie each week, but the cutie’s  _drive_   was at the top of the list.

He fumbled his hands around the bed, searching for his phone. When he found it, he squinted at the screen.  _Mistake; abort!_   The light it emitted felt like a spoon jabbing him in the eye. “Fuck.” Right-sliding his finger across the top message box to turn it green, he absently hoped that Eds was the sort of kid who could sleep through a nuclear blast. It rang four times, then Eddie’s recorded voice filled his ear, soft and professional.

_“Leave a message, please. If you’re a student, please also say your S number and the last four digits of your class ID. There are a lot of people named Sara.” Beeeep_

“Hey, Spaghetti Head voice-mail,” Richie croaked out, wincing at the sound of himself. The message he’d leave would be utterly pathetic, there was no way around it. “I’m really sorry to have to do this but I gotta cancel our lesson for today. I just woke up with a migraine, and these things put me out of commission.” He paused to exhale, hoping it didn’t seem like a bullshit excuse, or like he was some kind of huge whiner making a big deal out of nothing.

“I would just try to suck it up and come anyway, but the beach is so bright I’d end up puking all over the place. Sorry for that beautiful imagery, but it’s the truth, so…”  Sighing, he pressed his left hand against his eyes and continued. “If you’re into it, call up Bevvie at the office around nine to see if another instructor can take you out on short notice. I really want you to keep consistent, y’know, and put the time in even if it’s not with me. Fuck, sorry, I hate talking to voice-mails ‘cause I ramble like an idiot, you’re probably like ‘who cares; shut up already.’ Have a great day and a great week, since I won’t see ya. ‘Kay. Bye, kid.”

He started to pull the phone away from his ear to hang up, but didn’t, adding, “Oh yeah, this is Richie. Student number four hundred fifty-seven million; class ID sixty-nine sixty-nine.” He dropped the call and braved the screen glow once more to silence his alarm before rolling over onto his stomach and pushing his forehead into the pillow; sometimes pressure helped.

Falling back to sleep wasn’t an option, but he tried anyway. His entire head throbbed, the pulses coming in waves, and he counted each one like someone might count sheep or bottles of beer on the wall. Time crawled by, it had to be a lot of time, but he couldn’t tell exactly how much. Long enough for him to mess up his count several times.

Fingernails grazed the skin on the small of his back, and Bev’s voice floated to him, feathery. “You’re supposed to be up and on your way by now.”

“Life is canceled today.” Still planted face-first into his pillow, Richie’s voice came out muffled. “Sorry that I’m half naked but at least I don’t have a chub.” All he had on his body were a pair of boxer-briefs. The blanket’d been kicked to the foot of the bed before he'd even woken up.

“It’s okay. Every time I enter this pit I’m prepared to see more of you than I ever asked for.” He felt the edge of the mattress dip slightly from Beverly’s added weight. “Are you sick?”

“Migraine,” Richie moaned, rolling on his back. He kept his eyes shut. “Real fuckin’ good one too.”

“I’m sorry, honey.” Bev’s cool palm laid flat on his stomach, her thumb tracing an arc like a windshield wiper. “Are you stressed over next week?”

“Big time. I’ve been trying to pretend like it’s not happening.” He peeked an eye open and the morning sun coming through his bedroom window accosted his retina. Bev was blurry but he could tell she’d already dressed herself up for work. That meant it had to be at least eight thirty. “My stupid ass is going to end up getting fired and then what the fuck do I do?”

Richie’s supervisor had pulled him into the office for a chat at the beginning of the week. At first, he thought he was in trouble—which didn’t surprise him—but it ended up being good news. Well, good news depending on how he looked at it. Richie would be tasked with teaching a summer class. To kids. Kids aged nine to thirteen. Impressionable minds left alone for a few hours with a trashmouth. He was bound to have more than a few parents complain about him.

“You’re going to be awesome at it; you’re like a big kid.”

 “Yeah, I'm a big kid who says ‘fuck’ and ‘shit’ and fuckin’ ‘cock-smoking wiggle-dick.’”

“You just need to curb it. I’ll make you a swear jar; we’ll work on it. Before I head out, you want me to make you a cup of coffee? Caffeine helps when you get like this, right?”

“Sometimes, but I don’t know if I can handle the smell of it right now.”

“Oh, right. Did you cancel on your little lover-boy, already?” Bevvie knew all about Eddie. How much Richie liked him; how he didn't want to make a move until their student-teacher relationship was finished. It was their number one most discussed topic. 

“Left him a message. Told him to call you when you get to work to see if—” Forcing himself to form words became too much in an instant and he squeezed his hands against both temples, whining under his breath, “Fuck. I’m dying, Red.”

“Shhh, don’t talk anymore,” she whispered. “Try to sleep. I’ll make you some tea instead.”

“You’re gonna be late for work ‘cause’a me.”

“It’s Saturday; they can kiss my ass.” Bev got up from the bed and left the room.

Richie heard her moving around in the kitchenette and her grumbled curse when the tea kettle squealed for two seconds. She must’ve dove onto the stove to silence it, attempting to spare Richie from fully experiencing the noise in his state. A top-notch roommate and the best friend he could ask for, his Bevvie.

Her voice appeared from thin air. “This is my Zest tea, that coffee-alternative crap. It smells like cinnamon and apple.” Taking Richie’s limp hand in her own, Bev placed two tiny objects into it. “I know it doesn’t help all that much, but swallow this anyway.”

“A living doll.” He dropped the pills in his mouth and dry swallowed them without opening his eyes. “I’d beg you to get hitched but your rejection would tear my heart out.”

“Save your proposals for after you sack-up and ask the kid for a date. But y’know, give it a healthy six months.” Her hand gave him a soft petting on the front of his thigh. “I’m out of here. Actually try to sleep, okay? Don’t make me put parental blocks on the Food Network.”

Richie rolled back onto his stomach. “Fuck you; you don’t know my life.”

“Call me at work if you need anything.”

" 'Kay. Thanks." He heard the apartment door shut behind her, and with that Richie was left alone. His first immediate thought: hoping like fuck that the kids in the neighborhood weren’t going to be outside bouncing basketballs against the concrete wall behind their building all day.

As the morning wore on and the sun rose higher in the sky, escaping from the brightness filtering in from outside proved more difficult. Their curtains were a hodge-podge of vintage stuff Bev’d bought at yard sales and things she’d sewn herself, and none of them were designed to keep out light.

He gave up on attempting to sleep. With a deep sigh, he put on his glasses and slammed back the tea that’d gone cold on his nightstand. Dragging his ass out to the couch with his pillow and blanket in tow, he stopped on the way to lower the temperature on the thermostat. If he was going to die that day, it’d be inside of a fridge. Tossing his phone onto the coffee table, he clicked on the TV and kept the volume low, just to have something to listen to in the background.

Five episodes into a Chopped marathon, his pain had settled from an intense, undeniable pounding to a duller ache. The accompanying nausea was the worst part. It hooked him around the base of his neck, a strange pressure that seemed like it’d be remedied by twisting his jaw to crack the muscles there. It wasn’t.

His phone lit up and vibrated, the sound of it a jarring rattle in the quiet room: a message from Eddie. Without bothering to read the text, Richie slid his finger on the screen to call him.

“Hey,” Eddie’s voice was softly surprised. “How are you feeling?”

“Better now that I’m talking to you,” he rasped, trying and failing to appear unaffected.

“No really, be honest.”

“Not great," Richie sighed, answering honestly. "I called you so you can tell me what your text said. The screen is too bright for me to stare at right now.”

“Sorry,” he groaned, and right in that pained delivery, Richie saw Eddie's chubby cheeks and the way they crumbled when he was embarrassed. “I shouldn’t have even sent you a text; you should be resting with your eyes closed.”

“Eds, do I really seem like someone who does the right thing? I'm laying here watching Chopped. It hurts, but fuck it.” 

“You are  _not_   watching Chopped.”

"Am too. I just think it's funny how fucking serious they are about like, how _whimsical_  a plate is."

"Yeah," Eddie chuckled, "It's pretty ridiculous."

"So what'd you text me?"

"That I went to the beach by myself, and I also asked how you feel."

“You went to the beach by yourself?" Richie parroted, his cadence bobbing. " _Eds_.  What for?"

“To keep consistent, like you wanted me to. I did sequences and turtle rolls.”

“Get the fuck out of here!” Richie flinched because he forgot himself, raising his voice even a little was a mistake, but he couldn’t contain his excitement. He knew how self-conscious Eddie got when they went there together. The fact that he’d do it all by himself was impressive. “You’re such a badass. With what board?”

“I, uh, I bought one last week.”

Richie closed his eyes and basically purred. “Spaghetti Head, you’re such a cute little fucker it hurts me. What kinda board did you get?”

“A longboard. I know it’s not like  _ideal_   once I know what I’m doing, but...” He trailed off and was quiet for a few seconds. “Do you have anyone to look after you today?”

Smiling with his eyes still closed, Richie pictured how it would feel to have Eddie’s small hands petting his head, fingers combing through his hair. He’d have bet his paycheck that that’s the kind of boyfriend Eddie’d be. Comforting. Cuddly. “Why, are you volunteering?”

“Maybe,” Eddie drawled, the smirk of his lips pulling on the vowel sounds. "I don't have a lot of confidence in your ability to take care of yourself. I've seen the inside of your car."

"Don't insult me like that. It's a _Jeep,_ okay?." He looked down to assess himself. Undressed, unshowered and unshaved; he hadn’t even glanced into a mirror once since he woke up. “I’m a total mess right now, Eds.”

Eddie chuckled. “And that’s different from every other Saturday, how?”

A short laugh beyond his control burst out of Richie, and the jolt of it made his eyes throb. “  _Oww_ , ” he groaned, “that was a slick, painful burn.” Sitting up, he checked himself out in Bev’s big mirror that hung behind the couch. Hair: disaster. Face: extra pale under the contrast of a five o’clock shadow. He needed to find a shirt and pants. “You really want to come over here? I don’t think I can say no to you. Showing my weakness way too early.” He let that hang out there.  _Too early_ ,  like something between them had already begun.

“If you’re not up for it, it’s okay.” Eddie’s voice lowered a bit. “I didn’t want to go a whole ‘nother week without seeing your face, but that’s selfish. I’ll live.”

“So fucking sweet; Christ on a cracker." He tried to stop the smile from taking him over—it wasn’t doing his head any favors—but he couldn’t help it. "Get your ass over here. Wait, you know how to change a bed pan, right?”

“ _Richie.”_

_“Eds.”_

“What’s your stupid address before I change my mind?” Eddie asked him if he wanted anything: something to eat or drink, medicine, shiny toys, cold packs. The sky was the limit but Richie just settled on soup and Eddie’s company.

After they hung up, he threw on some clothes, anything clean worked—flannel pajama pants and a huge green hooded sweatshirt from a hundred years ago. He brushed his teeth and splashed water on his face. There was nothing he could do about the hair without washing and conditioning it so he let it do its own thing and it remained crazy. About thirty minutes passed before Richie heard the neat rapping on the door. On the way to answer it, he grabbed Bev’s enormous dark sunglasses off the counter and layered them over his own frames to shield himself from the outside light.

Eddie stood there on the doorstep, holding a brown bag of food and a plastic shopping bag full of mystery items from CVS that Richie hadn’t asked for. He wore those little red swim shorts and a loose white tank top, his skin sun-flushed and healthy. It was the first time Richie saw his biceps and shoulders since early-on in their work together and they seemed like they were a bit more defined. There was a strong impulse to slam him against the wall and kiss him, but  _equally_   strong was the urge to put him in a headlock and muss up his incredibly soft-looking and beach-tousled golden-brown hair. Eds reduced Richie to the most basic, adolescent cravings that lurked inside him, and it was a small miracle that he held them all in.

“Hiya.” He stepped back to let Eddie into the short hallway that led to the open space of the living room. “Whatcha need two bags for?”

Eddie grinned up at the double-glasses look as he walked over the threshold. He replied shyly, pronouncing it like a question. “I got you some stuff?”

“Mad libs? Pokemon cards?” He shuffled back to the couch-a short trip. Their living room, dining area and kitchenette were basically one large, messy room. “Sorry kid, I gotta be on my back.” Taking off both sets of glasses, he fell down against his pillow with an involuntary sigh.

“It’s okay, don’t apologize.” Richie heard him place the bags onto the counter. “I got you things someone with a migraine might want.” There was a rattling and a  _crack_   noise—a bottle of pills being opened. “Someone I used to know got migraines, so I kind of know what helps. Do you have any drug allergies?”

"Nah." Closing his eyes, Richie grinned. “Is  _someone I used to know_   code for ‘my ex?’”

“Yes. I didn’t think it was code, just a polite way to put it.” His voice came closer, the TV clicked and went silent. For the second time that day, Richie's hand was picked up and two pills were placed into it. This time, though, the touch tingled his skin, electrifying it.

“What are these?” He put them in his mouth without waiting for the answer.

“The good shit.”

“They sell Demerol over-the-counter?”

“No dummy. It’s the stuff they give you when you go up to the pharmacist and say ‘I get migraines, give me the good shit.’”

“Eds, I don't know about that kind of stuff. I mostly just let myself slowly die in any given illness and/or pain type situation.”

“No kidding?” Eddie’s retreating voice was laced with sarcasm. “I never would have guessed that about you.” There were more noises. Plastic bags swishing, a box opening, a sudden  _pop_. “Sorry if that was too loud.” He moved so quietly that Richie lost track of him; he was close-by again, right next to the couch. “Where is the pain localized for you?”

“Behind my eyes.”

“Okay. Incoming.”

Something soft and  _cold_  covered the top half of Richie’s face. The sensation coupled with the darkness it provided was immediately soothing. “Jeez, that’s nice,” he whispered.

“Leave it there for as long as you can stand it.” Eddie was already back in the kitchen. “Do neither of you know how to clean a dish?”

“Maid’s on permanent vacation,” Richie mumbled.

The kitchen sink turned on and the soft  _clinks_   and  _sploshes_   were unmistakable: Eddie set himself to washing their dishes. The sounds lulled Richie, and the coldness against his face was good, but it sort of hurt, too; a mild stab boring deep into his sinus cavity. He heard the apartment door open and the familiar jangle of Beverly’s keys moving up the hall.

“You better not be standing up when I get in there,” she warned, whispering as she approached. “Oh! Uh, hi.”

The tap stopped running. “Hi,” Eddie said uncertainly. “Bev?”

“That would be me. Are you Eddie? And are you doing our dishes?” She laughed under her breath, and Richie could picture her putting her hands on her hips demurely as she asked, “You’re single, right?”

"Very much," Eddie replied, his grin audible. "But I’m also equally gay. Sorry.”

“Kinda already knew that, just messing with you.” A pregnant pause stretched between them and Richie tried his best not to squirm. “Is he sleeping?”

A question of a hum came out of Eddie. “Hopefully?”

Bev's lowered voice materialized closer to the couch than before. “Thanks for taking care of him. If you weren't here he'd be watching TV.”

“I turned it off when I got here. Does this happen to him a lot?”

“Just when he’s stressed, which isn’t that often.”

“What’s he so stressed about?”

“That’s probably a question for  _him_ ,  don’tcha think?”

Another silence took them over and Richie wondered if it was awkward. He continued pretending to be asleep, hoping to hear something fuzzy about how Eddie felt about him. Between the cold pack and the ‘good shit’ Eddie gave him, he edged towards feeling better. His face was numb and he found himself suddenly more ravenous than nauseated, but he was willing to play possum for the rest of his life if he had to.

“Yeah. I guess I should ask him. We just kind of—” Eddie cleared his throat and exhaled a loud puff. “I don’t know what he told you about—”

“You?" Bev's grin had to have been shit-eating, it was so loud. "A whole lot.”                                                                             

“Wait, are you sure he’s sleeping?”

“Let’s test it,” she whispered.

Beverly’s fingernails tickled the bottom of Richie’s foot and he jerked it back reflexively, giggling without meaning to. “Fuck Bevvie, that’s totally rude!”

“Nope," she sang sweetly, "not sleeping.”

“It should be against the law to tickle someone in pain,” he groused, removing the cold pack and chucking it onto the coffee table. He sat up and grabbed his glasses, frowning as he slid them over his eyes.

“You sound like you’re feeling better, though.” Bev plopped herself next to him on the couch. “Better than this morning, anyway.”

“Yeah, now I just feel like someone tore all the stuffing out of my pillow and crammed it into my head." Richie crossed his arms over his chest, still on guard. "It was a group effort: you, Eddie Spaghetti, and my old friend time.”

“Maybe you should have a meeting with your old friends soap and water,” she teased, moving one of his curls off of his forehead and tucking it back. “Your hair is ridiculous right now.”

“Okay, judgy McJudge-pants. I didn’t make fun of you last weekend when you called out of work and lived in pajamas, so—”

“Uh, hey, anyway, I brought food.” Eddie interrupted softly, reminding them he was still there. “Random soup and sandwiches from Panera.” He carried the bag with him and sat next to Richie on the other end of the couch. “Based on the way this place looks, I’m guessing you guys don’t have any rules about not eating in the living room.”

Bev chuckled and gently elbowed Richie’s ribs. “Wow, you described him totally accurately.”

He dropped his defensive arms slack and shook his head. “You say that like I’m ever wrong about anything.”

Eddie rolled his eyes as he took containers out of the bag. “Do I even want to know what that means?”

“He said you were equal parts cute, cuddly, mean and snarky.  _Ow_!” She yelped at the end when Richie pinched her on the forearm. “Don’t dish it if you can’t take it. I’ll tickle the shit out of you and embarrass you in front of Eddie.”

"Please do it," Eddie said at the same time Richie said, "I'll flush all your makeup down the toilet."

Battle lines didn't need to be drawn; they settled down and ate lunch. Bev did most of the talking, complaining about the four hour Saturday shift she'd just finished. "You have no idea how often the parents are calling in about Monday," she told Richie, rolling her eyes. "They have so many stupid questions. It's like bitch, have you heard of the internet?"

"What's Monday?" Eddie asked, looking back and forth between both of them.

"The reason for my misery," Richie mumbled, stirring the tail-end of his soup, immediately no longer hungry. "I'm teaching a class of kids for six weeks. Monday, Wednesday Friday: three hours with twelve of them."

Eddie raised his eyebrows. "Isn't that a good thing? I mean, doesn't it mean--"

"More money, but also more responsibility, more stress, more chances to fuck everything up." Richie put the cup down on the coffee table and sat back, leaning his head over the plush top of the couch. "And those kids are  _for sure_   gonna make fun of my goggles."

“They might.” Eddie nodded sagely. “Lots of people might make fun of you, right?” He echoed nearly the same words Richie'd told him when he was embarrassed to get into the water the first time. “So what?”

“Yeah, they might, huh?” Richie whispered, tipping to the side to bump his shoulder into Eddie’s. “So what.”

“Alrighty.” Bev crumbled up the paper onto the remains of her turkey sandwich and stood up. “You guys are obviously doing some weird, cryptic flirting thing now, and that's my cue to beat it.” She headed towards her bedroom, calling over her shoulder, "Nice to meet you Eddie. I'm crashing your birthday party, just FYI."

Eddie and Richie exchanged a look. They both smiled at the same time.

"I was gonna ask you if it was cool if she came with," Richie explained, " _today_ ,  but the whole 'head-explosion' thing happened."

"She can come. I bet she'll tease my friends to death, which will be great." His eyes trailed up to Richie's curls, his smile turning into a barely-repressed giggle. “She’s right about your hair, you know.”

"Hey. Watch it." Richie pulled his hood up over his head, furrowing his brow. “I’m surprisingly sensitive.”

"Don’t worry, you make a cute mess,” Eddie stated with a barely noticeable wrinkle of his lower lip. “I'm glad you feel better." 

Richie turned towards Eddie and tucked his legs up under himself, repressing the urge to gush. It was tough—the toughest stretch of restraint he’d powered through in his life—and getting harder each passing week. "I didn't feel better 'til you got here," was all he said, and he knew how shy it came out. His belly was a bowl of Jello, and fuck, did he ever want to pull Eddie closer and bury his face into that golden, graceful neck and bite down.

"Good thing I came over, then," Eddie replied casually. He collected the obvious garbage off the table and stuffed it into the paper bag the food came in. "A bonus for me is now I know that you're ticklish,” he hummed, grinning like a little devil, “which is a big advantage for me to have."

"Pure evil. I knew it." Richie raised his eyebrows, feigning shock and horror, trying not to smile. "The bigger their eyes are, the more sinister they are at heart." He wanted Eddie to try to tickle him right then. He  _loved_   that shit. Tickle fights that ended with exhausted panting and pink cheeks and faces close together. “My head feels a lot better. Like right now, it’s pretty good.”  _Come get me tickle monster, I'm right here._

Eddie narrowed his eyes on the cable-box clock. “Eight hours since you called me. How long do they usually last?”

“No rhyme or reason, Eds. They hang around however long they want to torture me.”

“Try not to stress anymore about next week. You’re a good teacher.”

“Thanks.” Richie flipped his hood off and tried to run a hand through his tangles. “You’re a good _student_.  I can’t believe you went to the beach by yourself.”

“Honestly?” He bobbed his head side to side with a pout. “It was hard getting myself to go through with it, but once I started, I realized how much easier it is for me to concentrate when you aren't there.”

Richie’s mouth dropped open. “Hey! I thought I was a _good teacher_.”

Shrugging one shoulder up to his ear, Eddie didn't break eye contact. “You’re a good teacher who’s also so hot it’s distracting?”

“Takes one to know one,” Richie whispered to his lap, a rush of heat surging over his face. He glanced back over at Eddie, whose eyes were still fixed on him.  _Bold and getting bolder. First 'mouth-to-mouth' and then inviting me out and now telling me I'm hot. Lions and Tigers and Bears._

“How many more lessons before I’m officially a real surfer?”

“My best guess is three more.” He stifled a yawn against the back of his hand, the crack-of-dawn wake up taking its toll on him. "It's really up to you. How comfortable you feel with it."

“So that means I can't ask you on a date for three more weeks." Eddie screwed up his mouth, his eyes somewhere between a glare and a _you've-gotta-be-kidding-me-pal_   that almost made Richie laugh. 

_Ask me right now, I won't be able to say no._

“I plan on playing hard to get," Richie informed him, nodding and presenting Eddie with the exact opposite of his feelings. "Throw you a curve ball."

Obviously not buying it, Eddie scoffed and stood up, ruffling Richie's hair quickly. “You’re so full of shit.” He walked towards the front door.

Richie hopped up off the couch too, stuffing his hands in the front pocket of his hoodie. "Where are you going, Eds?"

"Home. You need a nap; I need a shower." He turned around when he hit the archway before the hall and spoke as he backed up. "You don't have to walk me out."

"Okay. Thanks for everything."

"My pleasure. I mean it: _get some sleep_."  With that Eddie left without saying good bye, shutting the door behind himself.

Richie stood there, mildly awestruck by Eddie's confidence and blinking down at the remnants of their lunch on the coffee table.

"He's smooth," Bev called from her room, "You never mentioned that."

"Eavesdropping should be as big of a crime as tickling." Richie stepped over to her doorway and leaned against the door jamb.  "You think he's smooth?"

"Like spreadable butter." Lying on her stomach in the middle of the bed, Bev leaned her chin onto her clasped hands and kicked her feet up behind her. "' _You're so hot it's distracting?_ '  Come on. How are you going to make it three weeks?" 

"Ye of little faith," he scolded her, but he knew she was right. "I already made it _six_   weeks without cracking."

"I give you another week and a half, tops," Bev stated with a smirk. She made a little squealy sound, like she saw a cute puppy. "What are you going to get him for his birthday?"

"My dick in a box?" Richie joked, waving a hand at Bev's thumbs down. "I know, _boooo_.  Fuck, I don't know what to get him." He yawned again, loud, hugging his arms around Bev's doorway and across the wall, clawing for dear life.

"Alright, get out of here. Shoo," she flapped her fingers at him. "Go take a nap like your boyfriend told you to. Maybe you'll dream up a good gift."


	7. born-day brazen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie's birthday, lesson 6 - part 1

**(12:00a) Richie: SOMEONE WAS BORN TODAY**

**(12:01a) Spaghetti Head: Yep, lots of people were born today**

**(12:01a) Richie: IS SOMEONE NOT EXCITED?? BECAUSE OTHER PEOPLE ARE**

**(12:03a) Spaghetti Head: idk it’s not like it’s some milestone birthday or something**

**(12:05a) Richie: eds. EDS. EVERY SINGLE ONE YOURE ALIVE FOR IS A MILESTONE**

**(12:06a) Spaghetti Head: I kind of see it like this: after 18 & 21 the tens are the only real milestones. 30, 40, 50… not quite there yet**

**(12:06a) Richie: youre seriously bumming me out dude**

**(12:07a) Spaghetti Head: try not to cry yourself to sleep over it. see you tomorrow**

**(12:07a) Richie: :(**

 

 

“Are you really gonna do this?” Eddie asked the question to his own reflection, the twinkle in his eye answering back for him.

_Yes. You’re doing this, and the look on his face will be worth it._

Snatching up his keys and phone, he gave his body another appraising glance in the mirror. White board shorts with bright blue flowers and nothing else, not even flip flops. Real surfers only wore wetsuits when the water was too cold to stand it without one, and besides, who needed a shirt or shoes at the beach?

Eddie got caught up admiring himself. The past seven weeks saw him working on his core strength obsessively. His new surfboard lived on the floor in the living room, and he practiced popups while he watched TV every evening. His body had changed so slowly that he didn’t notice it until midway through the week leading up to his birthday, when his therapist mentioned that he looked fit. He almost had real definition in his abs. There were dimples near the knobs of his shoulders and his triceps went from nonexistent to a slice of a cut on the back of his arms.

The previous weekend, when he went to the beach without Richie, he took off his shirt while he worked and the sun had darkened the freckles on his upper back and lightened the soft hair on his chest and belly. He hoped that the sight of him would leave Richie speechless, although that didn’t seem like something that was probable. The guy couldn’t even keep his mouth shut when he was in excruciating pain.

Since Eddie’s turn as Richie’s migraine nurse, their texting frequency had intensified. Richie’s flirtiness during those conversations waxed and waned, so much so that half of his messages might have come from a different person entirely. It seemed almost like he got wound up too tight and then cold-showered, cold-showered, cold-showered to bring himself back to center, and Eddie found it impossibly cute. In any other fledgling flirtation, he’d have gotten insecure at even a slight change in a guy’s demeanor, but with Richie he knew exactly what was going on, and rather than make Eddie nervous, it validated what he was feeling.

They were in near constant contact, so much so that Eddie made a habit of leaving his phone in his cubicle while he was teaching to eliminate the temptation to check it every five seconds. He felt bad about ignoring Richie, because he was a wreck over teaching his own class—especially that first day—and it was blatantly obvious right away that Richie-the-wreck was a person who needed reassurance.

“ _I’m surprisingly sensitive,”_ was what he’d said the last time they were together, while his hood covered his messy hair. An accurate and endearing admission that made Eddie want to climb over into his lap and push that hood back so he couldn’t hide. Richie’s tentative declaration of feelings in the parking lot, witnessing him down-for-the-count at his most vulnerable, his soft, scruffy face when he asked, _“Where you going, Eds?_ ”—all of it brought Eddie to a state he’d rarely experienced before: simply put, brazen. Not afraid to say exactly what he was thinking.

So, in the spirit of keeping things brazen, he was going to show up at the beach on his birthday looking like a real surfer: shoeless, shirtless and tan, with a pair of teal over-sized shades on his face and his own longboard strapped to the roof of his car. Ready, steady, go.

 

*

 

As soon as Eddie left his apartment, his choice of dress proved more advantageous than he originally thought. His plan was—no matter what Richie’s reaction—to feign nonchalance, which could have been easily accomplished by blaming his clothing on the weather. The sun was inescapable that morning, the air outside thick and sticky. A smart time to go without a westsuit, because the rays would have cooked Eddie alive shining down on that black rubber. He wished his actions were actually prophetic rather than coy, that his own comfort was the true guiding force behind the decision, because his therapist’s most recent assessment nagged through his head as he drove. It scolded him.

_“Have you considered that maybe your uninhibited attitude is directly related to Richie’s reluctance to pursue anything romantic with you? That maybe you feel like you’re in a limbo state, where it’s safe to push the boundaries because you know there isn’t anything to gain or lose?”_

Eddie’d made the feeblest attempt to protest her theory, though he knew she’d perfectly nailed it—she perfectly nailed _every_  little quirk he tried to ignore about himself. He denied it, not because he disagreed, but because he didn’t want to believe it. The idea implied that he would back away if Richie gave him the green light, and Eddie was worried that might end up being true. It had been a while since he liked a man who liked him back, and he didn’t want to be the reason it got ruined. Instead of dwelling on it, he prepped himself on the ride to the beach until he was ready to act as casually unaffected as Richie had the day he showed up in nothing but yoga pants.

He pulled into the half-full lot and strategically parked in the space directly opposite the Jeep, rather than alongside it. As soon as he turned off the engine, music began blasting. A classic rock song that Eddie recognized.

 

_They say it’s your birthday!_

_It’s my birthday too, yeah!_

_They say it’s your birthday!_

_We’re gonna have a good time!_

_I’m glad it’s your birthday!_

_Happy birthday to you!_

 

Smiling to himself, Eddie stepped out of the car and caught sight of Richie, clad in his wetsuit top and the neon orange shorts he wore to their first lesson. He danced like a mad-man beside the wide-open driver’s side door of the Jeep, rocking out so hard that his hair looked like a solid dark mass surrounding his face, rendering him blind to Eddie’s approach.

“THE BEATLES?”

Steadying his head long enough to look over at Eddie, Richie stopped dancing, dead-still, his curls bobbing and springing back from the impact. His expression changed in a split-second: curved lips were replaced by an open-mouthed gape and the plump apples of his smiley cheeks went slack. It was a solid-gold reaction, and Eddie wished he had the good sense to record it as a present to himself. Even if he couldn’t save it and keep it for later, getting to witness it was more delicious than any birthday cake he’d ever eaten.

Richie fiddled with his glasses as he leaned into the front seat to lower the volume. When he righted himself, he slapped both hands against the back of his head and held onto it, elbows splayed out. He dragged out the pronunciation of his words like he’d just witnessed Eddie commit a murder. “What. The. Fuck. Are you _doing_   right now, Eds?” His stare traveled down, meandering across Eddie’s chest.

Pouting to keep himself from smiling, Eddie cocked his head and slid the sunglasses up into his hair. Richie’s obvious distress sang to him. A song called: _Act Casual_. “I guess I wanted to feel like a real surfer today.” He shrugged, and turned his neck towards the path. “The ones that come to this beach don’t wear wetsuits.”

_I swear, this doesn’t have anything to do with that time you wore yoga pants. Completely unrelated events._

“Oh, is that all?” Richie dropped his arms limply to his sides and narrowed his eyes into the softest glare Eddie'd ever had directed his way. “You’re not trying to fuck with me?” He asked a question, but it sounded like a statement.

“We _are_   at the beach,” Eddie replied, throwing Richie's words back in his face. It was a line he’d practiced in the car on the way over, but the execution didn’t go as well as the rehearsal. He smiled right after he said it.

Richie’s mouth dropped open again and his glare deepened, crinkling the bridge of his nose “See?" He pointed, bopping his finger up and down. "You’re fucking with me. Okay, fine. I know how to handle this.” Scatting out some porno music, he raised his eyebrows as he made a production out of unzipping his wetsuit top and flinging it into the backseat of the Jeep. He crossed his arms over his pale chest, humming with a roll of his eyes, “I might not be tan and pretty like _some people,_   but this guy told me recently that I’m so hot it’s distracting.”  

Eddie maintained eye contact. “Sounds like that guy knows what he’s talking about.” He challenged himself to keep himself from looking lower than Richie’s face, picturing him like he was one of the head-in-a-fish-tank characters on _Futurama_.  “ ‘Cause he's right.”

Stepping a bit closer, Richie smiled. “I guess that means you’re definitely gonna wipe out today.” It almost seemed like shedding his own shirt negated the effect Eddie’s half-dressed state had on him. There was safety in an equal level of discomfort.

“All surfers wipe out when they first start.” Eddie kept his gaze focused on Richie’s throat and watched him swallow, just a ripple that moved vertically along his skin as his adam’s apple bobbed. “Don’t they?”

“It’s ridiculously cute that you want to be a real surfer so bad. Makes me less nervous about my gifts.” Richie backed up and turned, bending headfirst into the backseat of the Jeep. “This is mostly practical. Since you're a big-shot with your own board and everything now, I figured—” Shaking his head, he came back up with an unwrapped and unsealed cardboard box the size of a grapefruit. It had a shipping label on the side. “Everything about this is underwhelming, including the package so—”

“Richie, you didn’t have to get me anything at all.” Eddie opened the folded-over top flap of the box. “Stop putting it down and let me decide for myself if I like it.”

“ ‘Kay.”

In the center of the box was a bar of surfboard wax with packaging as attractive as fancy soap, and coiled around it, a sunny yellow and white pukka shell necklace. Eddie smiled and opened his mouth to say _“Thank you,”_   when Richie began explaining himself as quickly as an auctioneer.

“That wax is premo for summer temperatures. You won't probably have to change the wax until the fall, but-  And yeah, I know those necklaces are a totally cliché surfer thing so if you think it’s st—”

“I think it’s perfect.” He plucked the necklace out of the box and held it out for Richie to take off his hands. “Put it on me?” Gesturing with the box, Eddie tried to keep his face neutral as he played overwhelmed. It was such a cheap move, and he was perfectly capable of setting the box down and doing it himself, but he went for it anyway. “My hands are full.” As he turned around, he simultaneously heard and felt Richie’s heavy exhale.

“Sure.” The clackity-clack of the shells melded with the sound of the ocean as Richie’s arms came around and laid the necklace against Eddie’s upper chest. His fingertips just barely brushed Eddie’s clavicle, and in that whisper of a touch, he saw Richie reaching down and palming over his front, gathering him up, pulling him backwards and devouring him at the neck, dragging him into the Jeep. He _wanted_   it, even in broad daylight inside of a car with no top. The cool edges of the shells shimmying against his skin grounded him, shoving that image out of his brain.

Richie muttered, “ ‘Aight, done deal," his voice unusually tight.

“Thank you.” When Eddie turned around, the taller man's cheeks were just slightly rosey. Mission accomplished. “This is a great gift." He held up the box and waggled it. "I paid for the guy at the store to wax it, but I didn’t buy the one he recommended. It seemed like he was just pushing a promo—”

“Oh, shit!” He pointed across the lot, his excitement palpable. “I didn’t even see that you brought it. Lemme check out what you got.” Richie took off like a shot, ambling over to Eddie’s car.

Eddie trailed behind at half the pace. He broke his promise to himself and watched Richie’s ribs appear and move under his skin as he reached up to fondle the surfboard.

“This is fiberglass, Eds. It’s real nice, but you need a lot of practice on a foamie.” He turned around, leaning his hip against Eddie’s car. “This had to set you back. I didn’t know adjunct professors made bank.”

Eddie opened the back door to store his gift. “They don’t, but some of them have decent credit.” He slammed it and put the sunglasses back over his eyes.

Richie stared down at the ground, visibly thinking and chewing on the inside of his lower lip. “Fuck, I’m worried about taking you out,” he blurted, his jumpy eyes moving over the asphalt. “If you wipe, the board might hit you in the head. A foamie is softer than this guy,” he bent his arm up and tapped Eddie’s pale green board, “but getting whacked when you’re underwater is a jolt no matter what.”

“You mean I can’t surf for the first time on my new board?”

“You could, theoretically, but I don’t really want you to. If I’m worried about you getting clocked by a foamie, I’m already too close to the situation. It’s something that happens to everyone eventually.”

“I've been preparing to get hit in the head since I signed up.” Eddie didn’t go further into it than that. He didn’t tell Richie that in any given situation, a clear list of worst-case-scenarios and exit strategies ran through his head on shuffle. None of that mattered. The important part was that when it came to surfing he wasn’t anxious—at least not anymore—and it was a victory that belonged to Richie as much as it did to him. “I think I’m ready, and I trust you.”

Richie heaved himself off the car and stood to his full height, half-smiling. “You’re kind of amazing, y'know?”

It wasn’t what Eddie expected him to say at all. The proper response to a sincerely sweet compliment eluded him. He opened and closed his mouth like a carp but Richie kept going.

“When we first started you were so nervous. I wanted to grab you by your shoulders and shake you, tell you to loosen up. Now you’re ready to kick ass and take names.”

“If you weren’t so encouraging, I’d probably still be nervous,” Eddie admitted, giving credit where credit was due. “When I tell you you’re a good teacher, I’m not just saying it because I want to get into your pants.”

Deflecting the comment, Richie deadpanned, “That’s good, because you wouldn’t fit in my pants, anyway.” Another car pulled into the lot, pulling his attention away. There were five other vehicles already parked, and he ran his eyes over them. “Wanna get this show on the road before the audience gets bigger? I already scoped it out when I set up: the waves are too mild for the big bad surfers. Perfect for us.”

“That’s another reason why you’re a good teacher,” Eddie said, thinking out loud as he walked towards the path to the sand. “You act like we’re in this together.”

“We are, Eds.” Richie’s voice came from behind him, soft.  “One hundred percent.”

 

*

 

The wave came from behind. It bobbed their boards up and back down, passing underneath until it was in front of them, foaming for a few seconds before cresting. “Pay attention to how long it takes for the wave to break so you know when to start moving forward.” Richie’s voice was calm and even. He sat up tall on his foam longboard beside Eddie’s, using his long arms to keep himself fixed in one spot.  “You should be able to tell when it has you. You remember what the optimal is called?”

“In the pocket,” Eddie droned, in that moment feeling about as unsure as a middle-schooler parroting back a tough vocabulary word. The online research he’d done told him that new surfers frequently had a hard time figuring out when the wave 'had them,’ which was the instant when the board was secure on top of the wave. If he got into the exact perfect spot his board would sit right on the crest, creating a dip in the foam; a ‘pocket.’ Richie already assured him that it wasn’t totally necessary to get in the pocket: he could catch the wave just behind the point of foam and still accomplish the task. “And I’m just going to try to get _on it_   this time, right? I don’t stand up.”

“Right. We crawl before we walk. Keep your toes pressed against the board, paddle towards the foam and stay flat. Ride it straight to the beach. After you go for one, it’s gonna take a ton of effort to get back here to me. A lotta hard paddling and you’re probably gonna have to go under a couple waves.”

“Okay.” Eddie didn’t look over at Richie. He stayed on his stomach in position, his hands absently working the water to keep himself still. His heart thumped away in his chest—adrenaline and anticipation, not fear—and he’d been sweating since they started. They’d gone through their normal on-shore routine and he’d put his all into focusing. Counting. How many breaths did it take to complete the full arch-paddle-pop circuit? Two. Two full breaths and approximately four seconds. How many seconds did it take for a wave to form and then crest? It seemed like two. Two seconds. Eddie had a feeling he was over-thinking all of it. He let another wave pass under them. “I’m going to take the next one.”

“Cool. You have your ankle strapped, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You got this; you know your position.” Richie might have been looking at him but Eddie couldn’t tell. His goggles were tinted dark and the sun reflected off of them, obscuring his eyes completely. The tops of his shoulders had gone a little pink. “Here it comes, kid, paddle.”

Eddie paddled hard, chasing the wave on its way to the beach. He tried to pretend that he was still flat on the sand, that he wasn’t unstable with nothing but a hunk of foam rumbling and rocking underneath him, but it was nearly impossible. After several good strokes, the tail of the board dragged and he felt the whole thing jerk forward from beneath. The foam was on either side of his body, spraying him lightly like a weak sprinkler and cooling off his skin.

“I DID IT! I’M _DOING_   IT.” He wanted to turn around to see if Richie was watching, but scrapped that idea as quickly as he came up with it. Changing his position even slightly could’ve ejected him from the board. He kept himself flat and his abs contracted in response to the vibrations beneath him. Matching the involuntary tension of his front, Eddie engaged his back muscles, clenching them to keep himself balanced. He heard Richie yelling something, but couldn’t make out the words.

The wave petered out where the water was up to Eddie’s knees. He stood up and hefted the board under his arm, beaming back towards Richie, who looked small from a distance. He had both arms raised over his head, still yelling.

 "FUCKIN’ ACES EDDIE SPAGHETTI! YOU ROCKED THAT SHIT, SO! FUCKIN’! HARD!”

Chuckling, Eddie curved his neck back towards the sand to see if anyone was paying attention to them. Most of the beach goers were just casuals catching sun and couldn’t be bothered with their nonsense. A couple people sat up, watching.

“GET YOUR ASS BACK HERE SO I CAN POUND IT." Richie looked behind himself at the next wave. "NO WAIT, ACTUALLY?” He shifted to get onto his stomach and darted forward, paddling just like Eddie had, fast and direct towards the shore.

Holding his breath, Eddie watched as Richie’s board seemed to hop as it locked into the foam, straight in the pocket like it belonged there.

_He’s surfing over to me. Where the fuck is my water-proof phone._

Richie’s popup was smooth and controlled. He landed split-legged and sideways with his knees bent, hunching his upper body to make himself shorter so he was closer to the board. Even though he seemed too tall to be graceful, and he had knobby knees that reminded Eddie of the segmented limbs of a praying mantis, Richie glided smoothly, pin straight towards the shore. It was effortless, and made more impressive by the fact that it was obvious that he wasn't trying to show off. When he got closer to Eddie, he hopped off and the foam board flipped and skimmed off away from him to the left.

Without hesitation Richie jogged the distance through the shallows, smiling as he knocked the foamie out of Eddie’s hands, letting it slap against the water at their feet. “Sorry, if this is majorly inappropriate, but I gotta.” He grabbed Eddie’s shoulder, pulling him into a hug so hard their stomachs clapped together. Eddie heard but didn’t see the cringe distorting his voice. “You did that shit on the first try, kid.”

“Not inappropriate.” Eddie was made of steel, squeezing him back with one tight pulse before letting go. “I consider you at least a friend by now.”

Richie pulled back too, grinning like a shark. “What do you consider me at _most_?”

Shaking his head, he rested his foot on top of his board to keep it from floating in the direction of the undertow. “A dipshit.”

Clearly unable to help himself, Richie hooked his arm around Eddie’s neck and locked him, pulling his head down and bending him at the waist to ruffle his hair.

It was jarring and made Eddie stumble, losing the hold he had on his board. “Richie, cut it out! What are you, twelve?” He hadn’t been on the receiving end of a noogie since he was in middle school. It felt the exact same way it had back then: a combination of ‘a boy is touching me,’ and ‘this is completely fucking annoying,’ but it was comfortable, too. Chummy and natural. He didn’t fight it, just hung there, feeling the brand-hot skin of Richie’s upper arm against his neck. “I like you but if you think that means I want my head in your armpit—”

“Jeez you _like_   me, too?” Richie released him and gave his head one last sharp push to duck it. “Birthday confessions.” He moved away to chase after his board and called back over his shoulder, “Wonder what other interesting stuff you’ll tell me tonight when you have some alcohol in you.” When he bent over to pick up the board, Eddie saw three bright pink splotches forming on his otherwise creamy skin.

“Wow, you really  _are_  a dipshit, Richie. You’re going to have the worst sunburn on your back later.”

“Oh, _fuck_.”  Richie laughed and slapped himself in the forehead. “I fuckin’ am. Shit.” He walked out of the water and tossed his board on the sand. “Hold tight for a couple minutes. I’m gonna try to do damage control.”  He jogged back towards the lot, presumably to get sunblock out of his car--a fool's errand, because he'd just spent a solid thirty minutes in the sun with his upper body exposed.

That’s what he got for trying to beat Eddie at his own game: a natural punishment. It didn’t mean that Eddie wasn’t sympathetic. Sunburns were painful, and he hoped it wouldn’t put a damper on the night out they had planned. In all the excitement of his first attempt riding a wave, he’d nearly forgotten that they’d be together that evening, having drinks with his friends and Bev. Eddie backed out of the water, placed his board on the dry sand and flopped on top of it. He daydreamed about the night to come and watched an advertisement plane cross the clear sky as he waited for Richie to return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Beatles - Birthday 
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> this is kind of a weird place to end it but the next chapter will pick up where this left off and will include the bday party. I had a weird time writing this and I've been out of sorts I guess for a little while now so I hope it's okay. Thanks for being here <3


	8. both sides, now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Birthday Part 2 - issa trilogy. Eddie's confidence throws Richie for an insecure loop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long; things in general have been a pile of shit, but I'm still going. 
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> I hope you like it ❤️

“What kind of a goddamned-fucking total idiot takes off his stupid shirt with no sunblock on?” Richie muttered to himself, fiddling with his goggles as he dug underneath the driver’s seat with his other hand. He knew there wasn’t anything useful under there, but it was worth a shot. “Paler than a fucking lab rat, and now tonight is going to suck beyond…shit. Nothing. Nada. Niente.” He didn’t want to put his wetsuit top back on, because it would rub against his sunburned skin and probably make everything worse. “If I soak the inside of it, maybe—” He heard a car door slam behind him and bit his bottom lip. 

 _This is what this kid does to me. Making terrible decisions and talking to myself in a fucking parking lot._

Richie grabbed the top out of the backseat and booked it back up the path to the beach. When he hit the sand, he made a pit stop at the cooler and pulled out three bottles of water: one for each of them to drink, and one to pour inside his wetsuit. He paused to watch Eddie in the distance. Shades on and golden, the kid looked like he was posing for a GQ photo-shoot, chilling out on top of his foamie just a few feet from the water.

It was obvious that Eddie was acting glaringly different that morning. Richie couldn’t quite nail down the specifics, but the kid was extra confident and even. _Smooth_.  Bev’s word, and it was fitting: not only was he smooth, he seemed like he didn’t give a shit. Cool, calm, and collected. Blasé. If it was a front, it was a convincing one.

Shiny new shirtless Eddie was forward in a way that made Richie as nervous as a virgin on prom night—a feeling that was wildly out of the ordinary for him, at least in recent years. It was almost like they’d agreed to swap attitudes somewhere along the way, only Richie’d gone along with the switch without getting the memo. 

He’d been all set to make a move on Eddie after the very first lesson, and back then he’d have been content with a hook up and nothing more. It might’ve been completely presumptuous and arrogant to think it, but he could tell Eddie was into him from the instant they shook hands. He’d gone home and mouthed off about it to Bev, who put the kibosh on it in a flat minute. 

 _“This job is a great opportunity for you; don’t screw it up,”_ she’d scolded him, pointing right at his grinning face. She encouraged him to be mature about the whole thing, to put his work above his dick for once. Her skepticism and precautionary nature built the foundation for the  _I-will-not-fuck-my-student_ stance that Richie’d adopted, the one he eventually took seriously. 

 _Eddie Spaghetti is just my client._    

It was a mantra that he came up with and repeated to himself while he set up the boards in the sand before their earliest lessons. 

 _Eddie Spaghetti is just my client._    

Richie tried to force himself to believe it, but Eddie continued doing things that broadcasted his interest. For their second lesson, he came dressed in those little shorts. He  _stared_.  After they exchanged numbers, he flirted, and that was the beginning of the end of Richie’s  _I-just-want-a-hook-up_ mentality.

They’d sent an awful lot of messages back and forth. Breezy stuff; they shot the shit. Texts full of standard, daily complaints about work, plus a whole lot of solid, A-plus flirting from both sides, though they’d yet to dance with the elephant in the room. They didn’t talk specifics about what might happen once their professional relationship was over, but Eddie spoke to Richie about it without words. On that bright morning of his birthday he resembled a tomcat in heat ready to pounce, and tomcats in heat usually only stuck around long enough to bust a nut before they ran off into the night.

 _“I consider you at least a friend by now,”_ Eddie’d said, as they hugged in the shallow breakers.

_Samesies, Eddie Spaghetti, but what does that mean?_

If Richie bit the bullet, said ‘fuck it’ and gave the green light, were they going to immediately go bananas on one another? Eddie’s attitude hinted that it was a distinct possibility. Would it be a friends-with-benefits situation—since they were already friends—or did Eddie envision it being more than that? Did he get that same  _spark_   Richie did? The buzz thing; that tingly shit. The undeniable _pull_  he felt towards Eddie that he couldn’t hide, the one that made Bev change her original tune and get downright _squealy_   when she teased Richie about the possibilities. 

The questions needed answering, but he felt like the ultimate dork for even  _thinking_   about vocalizing them. Watching Eddie as he sunbathed, the nervous energy in Richie’s chest manifested as an urge—one so childish that it made him squirmy inside. He wanted to creep up and dump water all over his unsuspecting student. 

Richie cracked the top on one of the bottles as quietly as he could and kept his eyes fixed on Eddie, who didn’t budge. He spread the wetsuit top open over the cooler and poured out half the water to saturate the inside—especially around the shoulders—before slipping his arms inside it and zipping up. The cold and wet spongy liner against his skin made him shudder, but he managed to suppress the gasp that threatened to leave his throat. Clutching two bottles to his chest, he held the half-full one away from his body like a nervous robber with a loaded gun, and walked towards the shoreline with zero hesitation. 

His limbs buzzed in an uncomfortable flash of frantic energy that made him want to do a full-body shake like a wet dog. The kid was going to lose his mind over getting drenched, he knew it, but Richie couldn’t help it. He took a wide berth around the Eddie’s prone form so that his body cast no shadow, side-stepping and grinning like he was about to pull a prank on his sixth-grade teacher. 

Eddie looked smaller than he actually was, and so fucking  _cute_   sprawled on the huge bright-blue foamie. One leg was bent at the knee, the other stretched out long with the velcro closure of the board’s strap still wrapped around his ankle. The sandy hair on his lower belly and chest was lighter than Richie thought it’d be, and remained incredibly distracting. Judging from the way his solid chest rose and fell in long, patterned breaths, Eddie might have been asleep. It was endearing as shit that he hadn’t bothered to undo that ankle strap, as though he was so pumped to surf that he wanted to stay prepared the whole time. It almost made Richie change his mind about soaking him. 

 _Here it comes, Eds._  

He leaned forward and stretched his arm out as far as it went, giving the bottle a vicious shake so that a streamer of the cold water sloshed out and smacked a bulls-eye right on the center of Eddie’s stomach.

“Ahhh! What the fuck?!” Eddie sat up straight on the board. He sputtered, opening and closing his mouth a couple times. Based on the tone of his voice, those baby browns were probably  _blazing_ ,  but the sunglasses blocked them. “Why the fuck would you do that?” he complained, wiping water off his front with one hand. 

“Poor impulse control?” Richie shrugged. He cocked his head, grateful that his goggles were tinted as dark as Eddie’s shades. “Also? I assume that anyone who’s parading around shirtless at the beach is begging to get wet.” He held out one of the bottles for Eddie to take.

“Parading? I’ve been lying still and waiting for  _you_ ,”  he grumbled, but accepted the water. “You’re the one who did a strip-tease in a parking lot.” He opened the top and took a sip. “So who’s the one  _parading_?”

“Whatever, maybe parading is the wrong word." Richie paused, thinking. "Ohh,  _peacocking_ ,”  he declared with a snap of his fingers, his lips moving faster than his brain. “The  _lookit me, I’m so cool,  I  D-G-A-F_   kind of peacocking.” He put his insecurity on display transparent as shit; as plain as the clusters of freckles all over Eddie’s shoulders. 

Eddie pushed the teal shades up into his hair. “Okay, you’re going to need to translate that into a language I understand.” The soft curve of his tensed eyebrows and the wrinkles at the edges of his chubby cheeks communicated more to Richie than his words did. He looked like he was caught doing something wrong, and guilty for sure. “What does _peacocking_   mean?” 

 _Kid, you know exactly what I’m talking about but I’ll bite._ “You never been to the zoo, Eds?”

“Not since I was in high school, and birds aren’t really my thing. My friend Stan would probably get the reference.”

Richie sighed and plopped down on the sand to sit cross-legged. “When peacocks want to fuck, they do a dance,” he explained, waving his hands in a little fanfare. “They spread their fancy tail feathers, and shake ‘em like a Polaroid picture.”

A flicker of a wince crinkled Eddie’s eyes. He chewed on his bottom lip and looked past Richie at the waves. “I’m not trying to— I wasn’t—” He shook his head, rolling the bottle of water back and forth between his palms. “I’m just having fun.”

“I fully support fun. I’m team-fun all the way. But I need to say, that if fun’s all you’re after—”

“Who said that’s all I’m after?” Leaning on one hand, he hoisted himself to standing and crossed his arms over his chest. “Richie, we haven’t even gone on a date yet. I’ve liked you for seven weeks, and—”

“Seven weeks, huh?” Richie smiled and leaned his cheek on his hand. “This is helping. Tell me more.”

Eddie let out a breathy chuckle and dropped his arms at his sides. He gave Richie a concerned once-over. “Isn’t the wetsuit going to rub your sunburn?” 

“Yeah, probably, but it’s better than letting the sun finish me off. It would  _love_   to turn me into a walking, talking blister.”  Richie stood up and dusted some of the sand off his ass. He decided to let go of the  _apathetic emboldened Eddie_   issue like he was releasing a memorial balloon into the sky. Their slightly constipated talk was enough of a balm smoothed over his worries. “Let's get back to business. You think you’re ready to stand up?”

“I kind of can’t believe how ready I am.” Eddie stooped and placed his folded sunglasses down in the sand, setting his water bottle beside them. He picked up his board and took off running to the waves without warning, as fast he as could with his right leg encumbered by the strap. "Racing you," he yelled over his shoulder, his smile as loud as the rushing water, “and winning!”

 

*

 

Richie needed Bev's help getting the aloe vera gel on the spots he couldn’t reach, otherwise he might have kept the entire sunburn debacle to himself. His rambled explanation had gone from  _“Whoops, I lost my shirt,”_ to  _“I kinda called Eddie a fuckboy using bird analogies.”_    At first Bev’d laughed at him—for being both a show-off, and a paranoid idiot—but in the end, sympathized with the predicament as a ginger.

“Oof, man.” Beverly sucked her teeth and gingerly placed her cool palm on Richie’s upper back. “This is really bad.” She was already dressed and perfumed and ready to leave, while Richie sat on top of the coffee table in nothing but a pair of shorts that she picked out. “I mean, it could definitely be worse, but you look like a baby lobster.”

“I’m aware of the severity of the situation.” Richie sighed, hanging his head forward to give Bev easier access. He'd taken two of the coldest showers he could stand and swallowed a few asprin to bring down the swelling, but the damage couldn’t be reversed that easily. The additional hour he’d spent watching Eddie surf was uncomfortable and chafey, but awesome nonetheless. His student was an absolute natural, and Richie already had visions of the two of them going out into the waves together some morning at dawn. Some morning when he didn’t feel like red ants were biting him all over his torso.

“Having a sunburn sucks, but your hair looks amazing,” she cooed in consolation, combing the splayed fingers of her other hand through his shiny curls. “You should put product in it every day.”

“Less chatty, more rubby,” Richie demanded, waving the bottle of aloe behind himself for Bev to grab. She took it and the cap clicked. A fart-like  _squish_   preceded an ice-cold blob plopping onto his upper back. He clenched up on a gasp and it came out sounding like a growl. “ _Christ,_ Red. You can’t put the shit in your hands first? It’s fucking _freezing.”_

“I thought that was kinda the point,” Bev hummed absently as she spread the gel over Richie’s shoulders. She  _tsked_    again. “Fuck, your  _whole_ back, too. Ouch.”

 “If anyone expects me to be able to keep a shirt on all night, they’re smoking crack.”

She swiped her lubed hands down his sides and into the small of his back, tracing a line lengthwise, just above the waistband of his faded black denim shorts. The skin there was at its most swollen, right on the edge of where his unmarred, pale ass began. “You’re _not_   taking your shirt off at a bar. I won’t allow it.”

“How the fuck did I let you talk me into wearing these shorts.” They were tight ones that buttoned closed and would rub awfully on the worst part of his burn. “Four drinks, and I’m naked. Guaranteed.”

“If that’s a true story, you’re getting cut off at three.”

“You can’t tell me what to do; you’re not my real mom,” Richie whined, petulant but joking. Sort of. Beverly tended to assume she knew better than he did in any given situation, and she’d already vetoed his plans to wear an 80’s-style cropped football shirt with the loosest lounge pants he owned. If she thought she’d also be policing his beverage choices all night, she had another thing coming. “Worry about your own consumption, and _your own clothes_  staying on, Sally.”

“Way to deflect. You do whatever you want.” Bev sounded like she’d given up on harping. She crossed the living room to wash the sticky aloe off her hands in the kitchenette. “I’m just telling you, taking off your shirt at someone’s birthday party—someone you probably would rather impress than embarrass—is a bone-head move.”

Richie stood up and held his arms out, waving them a little to let himself dry, and caught his reflection in the mirror above the couch. His chest and shoulders weren’t quite  _red_ , they were the oddest shade of bright pink, a hue that continued down his upper arms until it faded into the beginnings of a farmer’s tan near his elbows. “Fine, I’ll keep my shirt on.  _Two shirts_ ,” he scoffed, plucking the light gray tank Bev’d selected for him off of the couch and yanking it over his head.

“You look really good in that,” Bev promised as she came back into the living room and stood behind him to look at herself in the mirror. “I stuck the aloe in my purse in case you need to go to the bathroom and get a blast of it later,” she added, fiddling with the slim belt around her waist. “But they’ll probably all think we’re doing coke.”

“If you refer to it as ‘getting a blast,’ they could interpret it to mean a lot of different things.” He exhaled heavily, and gave up on the collar. “ _Fuck,_ I keep saying  _they_   but I don’t even know how many of Eds' friends are going to be there.”

“We should get going.” Fluffing at her loose waves, she softened her voice. “Are you nervous?”

“Does the Pope shit in the woods?”

Bev chuckled as she moved her hands from her own hair to Richie’s, petting more than grooming. “Uh… yeah?”

“I’m  _really_ nervous, Bevvie,” he choked out, and the sound of his own voice was so utterly pathetic that he started laughing. “I feel like I’m going to a job interview.”

“Okay, well, now I know what we’re listening to on the way there.” Bev shooed him towards the door with a gentle shove on his hip. “ _Don’t worry baby,”_ she sang softly, _“Everything will turn out alright.”_

**~*~**

 

He knew it was an impossibility on par with hitting a bullseye five times in a row, but Eddie could have sworn he’d gotten taller.

 _Ridiculous_.

No one gained inches on their twenty-seventh birthday—not _vertically_ ,  anyway.

Sitting on his stool, flanked on either side by Bill and Stan (both of whom unknowingly served as height guides), Eddie’s reflection in the mirrored wall behind the bar appeared to be its usual size. And if he really wanted to get _Law and Order_   about it, the evidence stacked. The fit of his linen pants hadn’t changed a bit: loose in the hip, with the hem ending just above the ankle. Eddie knew he hadn’t _actually_ grown, at least not physically.

That morning, he’d surfed— _really_   surfed—and he’d been successful well beyond his wildest expectations. Skating over those waves was exhilarating and surreal in equal measures, though Eddie’s frame of mind prevented him from appreciating it for all it was worth as it happened. The overall experience was muted by the confidence he’d layered over his bathing suit like an invisible cloak. His body tingled for the rushes and swells, but none of it quite hit his heart, or even his head.

Eddie's athletic-success-induced pride wasn’t the only thing dampened by playing it cool. His instructor’s unrelenting enthusiasm and praise, the entirely endearing _cuteness_  that Richie embodied that day floated just above him, out of his reach. He might’ve been the one _peacocking_ ,  but Richie gave his own performance as he ran the full gamut of emotional responses.  

It wasn’t until later, while Eddie stood in the shower scrubbing the sand out of his nooks and crannies, that the evidence sunk in deep enough to penetrate. For an hour and a half, Richie’d drooled and scrambled and showed concern, lost his mind cheering, gave out bear-hugs and noogies, mildly maimed himself in the spirit of keeping the score one-to-one, and capped it all off by blatantly revealing his insecurities regarding Eddie’s unaffectedness. The verdict? Richie liked him. Richie wanted more than just a fun time. They were on the exact same page, and when he went over everything in his mind, the entire morning’d been one long super-boost to his ego. Eddie'd stepped into the tub a modest five-foot-nine and came out a giant, but to the casual observer nothing had changed.

The tinkling of bells rang out and Eddie jumped. He twisted his neck towards the door.

_Not Richie._

Two women in their twenties entered the bar and headed straight for one of the pub tables in the center of the room _._ O’Neil’s was too empty for a Saturday night, though it was _early_ ,  barely ten, and the off-season for college students.

Eddie sat at the bar waiting, one ear poised and ready, honed in on the entrance, the casual-cool attitude he adopted that morning all but vaporized. He spun his second pint glass of summer shandy. He wasn’t much for beer, but he’d agreed try it because Mike fully endorsed it as a light, fruity glass of heaven. It tasted more like lemonade than alcohol, and went down so easily that he worried about how the night would play out if he kept drinking it. 

Bill’s elbow nudged into his left side. “What time did you tell him to come?”

“I said any time after nine, and that it wasn’t, y’know, set in stone.” Eddie swiveled on his stool side to side. “ _Come whenever_.”  He glanced to the right when he heard a snort.

“Hmm, and he’s already fashionably late,” Stan mumbled as he stirred his vodka tonic.

“If you tell someone ‘come whenever,’ technically they can’t be _late,”_ Bill reasoned, leaning his arm across Eddie’s section of the bar towards Stan. “He should have told the guy ‘sometime between nine and ten’ to save himself the grief of wonderi—”

Eddie sighed roughly over Bill’s words. “Can you stop talking about me like I’m not here?”

“I’m n-not. Just sayin’ that—”

“Hey, Billy,” Mike appeared in the mirror beside Eddie’s head, his face harried and a bit sweaty. He’d barely had any time to spend with them at all since they arrived, despite the lack of patrons. “Will you come to the keg room and help me bring some pallets out here to make the stage?”

“Stage?” Eddie scrunched up his face and his head vibrated frantically. “Oh, no. No. I don’t even _know,_ but no.”

Smirking, Stan sipped his drink. “It’s the fun surprise we told you about. Breathe.”

“All will be revealed soon.” Mike grinned as he wiped his brow. “Participation is voluntary, don’t worry. C’mon Bill.” He beckoned the red-head with a wave of his arm. “If anyone needs a beer, get it for them,” he called over his shoulder, “Judith can’t handle everything herself.”

Stan rolled his eyes. “We don’t work here, Mike.” When their friends were out of earshot, he turned towards Eddie. “Are you nervous? First time seeing him out and about.”

“Yeah. At my lesson today, he called me out for being a show-off and a tease.”

"He did _not."_   The bark of laughter that came out of Stan was as melodious as a trumpet. “Well, were you?”

Eddie clenched up his face and nodded. “I was, if you want to take it at face value.”

“Why?”

“Honestly?” He chugged a long swallow of his beer. “I don’t fucking know why, not really. Though I’ve been given theories.” When Richie made those airy comments about parading and peacocking, Eddie felt ashamed. It was like his therapist had come running up on the beach to scold him.

“Is that him?” Stan asked, his voice and the front-door bells merging as one sound.

Jerking his head towards the door, Eddie laid eyes on a stocky man with shaggy, sandy hair and a matching beard. The guy struggled with hefting a huge black rectangle, some sort of electronic equipment. “No. That’s not him.”

“Oh wait, shit. I know who that is. Be right back.” Stan slipped off the tall stool and walked over to the man. He arched a slender arm towards a vacant area near the back wall of the space, a spot that used to be home to a large table.

The mystery man placed his burden down on the floor and immediately headed back to the exit. Stan trailed behind him and caught Eddie’s eyes across the dim atmosphere. He walked his fingers across his hand and pointed to the door, then back to the black rectangle, mouthing, _“He has more stuff.”_

Eddie nodded, like he understood, though he didn’t. He focused his attention onto his phone and tapped a finger on the screen. No new messages. Only the neon-green notification winks from his mother’s _three_   voicemails that he’d ignored. They were probably _happy birthday_  wishes, laced with passive aggressive shots about how he never called anymore, how worried she was for his health.

 _Spare me._  

Behind him, the bells jingled again but he didn’t bother to look. He thumbed over the tiny shells of his new necklace, spinning them around absently. The collar of his shirt nearly hid the gift completely, but he couldn’t forget it was there. It was light and summery, and though Richie brushed it off as a silly cliché, Eddie loved it. He hadn’t removed it, not even to shower.

“My dude doesn’t travel light.”

 _Oh, shit_.

Eddie’s head turned towards that voice with such force that it might have torn right off his neck. His hand still fondled the necklace as his gaze settled on Richie.

He was dressed up in what might’ve been the most put together outfit he’d ever worn in his life, and pushing a dolly full of speakers to the back end of the bar.

Stan followed behind, holding a tangled mess of cables. He grinned and raised his eyebrows, pointing at Richie’s back as he meandered closer to Eddie. “That’s him, right? He’s wearing shorts at night, and his shirt is unbuttoned.”

“That’s him, and it’s the nicest thing I’ve ever seen him wear.” Eddie stood up and pulled self-consciously at the edges of his light-orange polo. “Stop ruining it.”

“He _is_  cute though,” Stan admitted, hugging the cables to his chest. “He offered to help us without asking any questions. And that hair—”

“Right?” He gave Stan a poke in the arm with his index finger. “What’s with the sound equipment, anyway?”

“Mike’s going to host karaoke on Saturday nights during the off-season to drum up business. That’s the surprise.”

“Yep.” Mike appeared from thin air, walking past them with Bill in tow. Each of them held two wooden pallets out at their sides. “Start looking at the song book,” he hummed as he walked away, “The birthday boy has to sing at least once.”

“I thought you said it was volunt—” The bells cut him off and Eddie whipped his head just in time to see Bev enter the bar, all smiles and done up in a short, summery dress. She walked in mighty friendly with the mystery guy— _the karaoke guy_ ,  Eddie surmised. They chatted as they made their way to the staging area. Bev shoved the guy in the shoulder and shrieked something unintelligible at Richie, who ignored her. He had his face pointed towards the floor, and his glasses slipped lower on his nose as he wrestled one of the speakers off the hand-jack.

“Should I go over there?” Eddie’s voice came out choked and tight. He knocked his knuckles against Stan’s forearm as he got lost staring across the room at Richie’s shorts. They showed off more leg than any of his bathing suits: the whole of his knobby knees and several inches of hairy thigh. “Or should I wai—” He froze mid-sentence, because Richie’s head lifted. They locked eyes and both held on.

Everything became too real. Flirting and teasing by the light of day in a professional environment was one thing, but nighttime? Drinks? Shiny hair? Intense eye contact across dusky barrooms while experiencing a blood alcohol level above 0.0? Frantic, nervous energy clunked around in Eddie’s belly, like his organs were punching him from the inside. He’d been made of steel that morning, but even the hardest metals had melting points.

A soft smile took over Richie’s lips, and he pushed the rectangular frames up to their rightful place with one finger. He finished depositing the speaker on the floor and gave the karaoke guy a clap on the back before sauntering Eddie and Stan’s way, gliding along, his ebony locks bouncing. “Just a friendly warning: you’re all in big trouble.” The merged aromas of aloe and coconut and smoke surrounded him, and his eyes shimmered behind his glasses. “Holding out on the fact that this is a karaoke party? Sneaky, Eds.”

 “He was in the dark; you can’t blame him.” Stan looked back and forth between the pair, obviously waiting for an introduction.

The words wouldn’t come out. Eddie was caught up by Richie’s hair. Those curls were stacked tighter than normal, but still managed to be wild framing his freckled face. They were so springy that he wanted to reach out and tweak one to find out if it went _boing_.

_Say something. Speak words into existence._

“You must be Richie.” Stan struggled with the clump of wires and loosed one hand, stuck it out. “I’m Stan.”

“Oh damn, you’re Stan.” Richie pumped the shorter man’s hand and paused for a beat. “Bird man. Maybe after a couple shots we can talk about mating dances.”

“That’s not the weirdest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” Stan drawled sarcastically with a little smirk. "Alright. I'll leave you guys to it." He walked away to hand off the cables.

“He loves me already,” Richie stage-whispered, stepping a little closer. His eyes roved down Eddie’s neck and stopped just at the hollow of his throat, where a meager two inches of the yellow necklace peaked out. He smiled. “You look smokin' in real clothes.” Soft, sincere, almost shy.

“You too,” he insisted, so urgently that he wanted to slap himself. Eddie thought Richie looked ‘smokin’ ‘ in _anything_  he hung over his body, but that dark blue shirt patterned with little pink and baby-blue sea turtles, coupled with the fact that he’d obviously taken the time to fix his hair for once, it was almost too much to handle. The tank top under the open button-down did very little to conceal the fact that his upper-chest was nearly fuchsia, though, and Eddie's awe was replaced by a twinge of sympathy. “Ooh, but ouch, that sunburn--” 

“Nah, it’s okay. Stings, but a couple drinks’ll numb me up.” He brushed it off with a nonchalant wave. “So what’r’we drinkin' anyway?”

“Oh, Right!” Hospitality was a welcome distraction. Eddie snapped to attention and jogged his way behind the bar. “Whatever you want? It’s on the house for us; you actually can come back here and take—”

“Gimme whatever you're having.” Richie sat on the barstool that’d previously belonged to Bill. “Get Bevvie one, too.”

“Really?”

“Yup. We’re not picky.”

“Then you’re both drinking the summer shandy I got talked into.” Eddie pulled two pint glasses from beneath the bar and filled them from the beer tap, holding the glass sideways to minimize the head.

Richie watched closely the whole time, his eyes boring holes in Eddie’s abdomen. “Someone knows how to bartend.”

“Two years in undergrad.” He placed two small napkins on the bar and set the glasses on top. “If you want more, you can just come back here and get it. Mike said it’s okay.” He walked back around and climbed up onto the stool beside Richie. His friends were still on the other side of the room, setting up the area that would become the stage. He couldn’t hear them, but it was obvious that Bev’d appointed herself the director. She pointed down at their handiwork, grinning and bossing them around like she’d known them for years.

“So,” Richie held his glass out in front of himself, and tipped his chin towards Eddie’s half-full one. “A toast?”

“Uh, yeah.” Eddie grabbed his beer and held it up. “To…?”

“To _you_ , dingus. To a happy birthday, and many more?” Richie grinned. “To a totally excellent surfer who didn’t wipe out _once_ on his first shot?”He pursed his lips and rolled his eyes. “ _Aaand_   to an all-around badass, and painfully cute cock-tease.”

He huffed out an embarrassed laugh, and dipped his face down. “Sorry,” he muttered, “you were right, I shouldn't've—”

“ _No,_ no biggie; I’m over it." Richie ducked his head a bit and brought his face into Eddie’s line of sight. “Don’t leave me hangin’ on a toast; it’s bad luck.”

Eddie sat up taller and clinked his glass to Richie’s. They each took a long swallow.

"The more important thing? Right now?" Richie placed his glass on the bar and leaned into Eddie’s space again, lowering his voice like he was telling a secret.  "I need to know if you're ready for a really big show.”

“Probably not." Their faces were close enough together that Eddie could smell Lysterine. Richie's lower lip was almost as pink as his sunburn. "I think I need another translation," he joked, speaking directly to the other man's mouth. "A _Richie to English_   translation.”

“Nope. No spoilers. Just get yourself prepared for some over-the-top shit.”

Bev came careening over, a tornado of lime-green fabric and pale skin and orange waves. She grabbed onto Richie’s shoulders and squealed into his ear, “I’m so excited dude; karaoke?!”

“That fucking hurts _so much,_ ” Richie groaned up at the ceiling. “I love you, but fucking get off of me.”

Bev let go and put her hands up in surrender. “Oh, shit, sorry. I forgot.” She collected herself in a matter of seconds and turned to Eddie. “Hi, Eddie! Happy birthday!”

“Hi, Bev. Thank you.” Eddie looked past Bev and Richie at his approaching friends, who smirked at her as a group, clearly amused. “Uh, Mike, Bill, this is Richie. I think you already met Bev.” He did the awkward introduction thing before turning away from their handshakes and greetings. So it began. Two wild cards shuffled into the deck that was his friend group, and the promise of a ‘really big show.’ He said a silent prayer to a God he didn’t believe in anymore; gave an internalized pep talk to the part of him that wanted to down drinks until the nervous buzz in his gut disappeared. 

_Steel. Think steel. This is going to be fun. 'If you let it be,' like Richie said, remember?_

Mike poured them a round of shots and they were off to the races.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC - next time on Surf Bois: Karaoke and maybe more 
> 
> [ The Beach Boys - Don't Worry Baby](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X9E1by7PocE%20)
> 
>  


	9. a little bit closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Birthday III: the reckoning. Aloe, karaoke and some cute babysteps towards the inevitable, probably.

The karaoke guy—Ben, who was both single, and could get it, per Bev—took more than an hour to get his equipment up and running. Richie’s tornado of a best friend flitted back and forth between their group at the bar and the staging area, bringing back updates they didn’t ask for. Like the fact that O'Neil's was Ben’s first solo gig hosting karaoke, and that he was a grad student, studying urban and regional planning.  _“He grew up in Connecticut and lives in Brooklyn, you guys,”_ she’d hummed dreamily on her last drive-by knowledge drop.

 _“You’re on the rebound, Missy,”_   Richie’d chided like a concerned father.  _“Slow your roll.”_

During their wait for the entertainment, the bar had managed to fill up and the jukebox came alive, playing one 80’s hit after another. The age of the crowd was older: a mix of twenties and thirties, which was typical during the summer months, even in a college town. Bill begrudgingly agreed to help Mike serve through the rush, leaving Stan, Eddie and Richie alone to make conversation amongst themselves.

Stanley took more of an interest in Richie than Eddie expected, asking questions that Eddie himself had yet to broach in the confines of their ‘professional’ relationship.

Where did he go to school? He dropped out of Rhode Island Art Institute four credits from graduation. When he was a kid, what did he want to be when he grew up? A comedian, or a ventriloquist, or a comedian-ventriloquist,  _“But y’know, an actual funny one.”_ How long ago did he come out? When he was twenty-three, so not that long ago, in the grand scheme of things.

When the questions got a little  _too_ personal (when was your last relationship?) and Richie shifted uncomfortably on his stool, Eddie elbowed Stan one swift knock in his gut, earning himself a death-glare followed by an eye roll that said,  _“You win.”_

Stan, his drunkenness unmistakable when he raised his voice, changed the subject. “So is Bev ‘nterested in electronics, ‘r just blonds?” He nearly shouted the question across the small space.

“She’s mostly interested in shy dudes who look like lumberjacks,” Richie yelled his answer over the din. “And it helps if they’re blushy.”

Eddie grinned. “Blushy?”

“Yup.” Richie took a swallow of his beer. “Sometimes you get blushy, Eds,” he announced with a little smirk.

“Said the guy with a hot-pink chest,” Eddie replied smartly.

“Having a sunburn isn’t the same as when these chunksters,” he reached out a hand and brushed a knuckle over the apple of Eddie’s cheek, “turn into rose-buds.”

Eddie tried not to squirm after the light contact. He was four beers in, and at that point there wasn’t much keeping him from dragging Richie into Mike’s office to get familiar on the beat up couch. “Chunksters?”

“Chubby Cheeks McGee,” he said solemnly, nodding.

"Alright, thanks for your patience,” Beverly’s voice boomed over the mic, rising above the music from the jukebox. “We’re not quite there yet, but close. Richie, wanna get up and work the crowd?”

“Oh baby, you better believe it.” Richie raised his eyebrows to Eddie and picked up his glass to bring it with him. “I hope you still like me after this.” He got off the stool and loped up to the make-shift ‘stage’ without waiting for a response. Instead of grabbing the mic, he went straight for Bev, ducking down and talking close to her ear. His eyes widened and his face suddenly went intense and serious.

Eddie craned his neck to see Bev’s expression following whatever Richie’d told her, but his view was blocked by Bill, who came around the bar and stole Richie’s seat. “Next time Mike needs help serving, you’re up.”

“No way,” Eddie answered, eyes still focused on Bev and Richie’s secret chat. “It’s my birthday.”

“Brat,” Bill chastised, not unkindly. “ _‘Twenty-seventh birthdays don’t matter,’_   ‘til someone needs to you do work.”

Stan leaned a hand on Eddie’s thigh to get closer to Bill. He was pliant and warm after a few vodka tonics; extra grabby. “Zip it Big Bill, Richie’s about to do some comedic-ventril’quism ‘n I needa hear it.”

“You’re cut off,” Bill and Eddie chorused with matching smiles, an inside joke that felt a bit hollow without Mike’s voice rounding them out. Whomever in their party achieved tipsy-status first routinely found themselves on the receiving end of the chant.

“ _You’re_   cut off,” Stan echoed, with a pert little bob of his head.

“Shush it.” Eddie gestured towards the stage with his glass. “You said you want to hear Richie: pay attention.” He gave Stanley a soft shove back towards his own space.

Richie set his beer down on one of the stools Mike’d dragged up on top of the pallets, like a real comedian. He gripped one of the microphones, lifted it off of its stand and hummed, “O’Neil’s,” fondly, like he was addressing a long-lost friend. “Good to be back in town after a long tour.” He jerked his thumb towards Bev, who was hunched over, attempting to help Ben get the karaoke machine up and running. “Me and Bevvie, here? We been all up and down this crazy coast. Fifteen cities in four nights, and we’re pleased as fuckin’ punch to bring back the classics for a local, captive audience.”

Eddie smiled against the rim of his glass, drinking in the full experience of Richie, and marveling at the way he managed to be goofy, charming, confident, and cute all at once. His normally pale cheeks had a tell-tale drunken flush to them, and the hue almost matched the harsh redness poking out of the scoop neck of his undershirt. His curls were the shade of black that could be mistaken for midnight blue in the right lighting, and Eddie wondered if he’d know what they felt like between his fingers before the night was over.

“We’re only experiencing some minor technical difficulties,” he assured the crowd, his voice registering extra deep out of the mic. “But it’s all good, right? All in a day’s work in this business of SHOW that we find ourselves in. Let’s take the time to give a shout-out to my main man Eddie Spaghetti.” He shot a finger gun Eddie’s way. “He’s legally old enough to drive today, isn’t he adorable? Do a dip for the people, kid.”

Cringing, Eddie put his hand just above his eyebrows to shield himself from the stares of the patrons, but his friends weren’t having it. Mike stopped what he was doing behind the bar to slow clap at him. Stan and Bill held their hands above his head and pointed down, both lithely escaping his attempt to slap them away.

“I’m kidding; he’s been old enough to drive for a long time, folks. I’m talking _over-the-hill_ ; shuffleboard champion; call AARP.”

Eddie tried not to smile as he mouthed  _You asshole,_   and flipped Richie the bird.

With a mile-wide grin, Richie stuck a hand up and pantomimed plucking the mimed curse out of thin air and stuffing it into his pocket.

Stan leaned in close to Eddie so their shoulders touched. “Is he verse?”

“That’s what you’re thinking about?” Eddie chuckled, bringing his mouth by Stan’s ear. “I’m gonna tell him you think he’s hot.”

“I hate you so much.” He leaned back to his own spot and sipped his drink, glassy eyes fixed on Richie, who continued to flap his trap, spewing nonsense to fill the time.

“—celebrating a lot of things tonight: beer, singing, summer babies. Summer babies are conceived in the fall or winter—no one really talks about that but I’m out here spittin’ the truth--”

Bev stepped up next to Richie and grabbed the other mic. “If you want him to shut up, just honk at him,” she told the crowd. “Beep beep.”

“You’re the one who told me to entertain the people, and now you invite them to heckle—” The karaoke music cut on, a quiet synth at first, building, building, chimes and a bass riff. “Oh shit, they're playing our song.”

“Yeah, dude,” Bev growled into the mic, green eyes huge and intense on him, “Are you ready?”

“Born ready, darlin’ but I don’t think  _they’re_   ready for this shit.”

Eddie recognized the song, and a slow smile took over his face. 

“Oh my  _God_ ,”  Bill laughed, “They’re not actually singing—”

“They are,” Eddie said plainly.

Mike slid over and leaned across the bar. “This is the ultimate get-white-people-hype-anthem and I’m living for it." He grabbed a tray of drinks and hefted it up. "That’s the whole point of doing karaoke night,” he said quickly as he walked away with dollar signs practically glittering in his eyes. 

The karaoke machine projected the words onto the wall behind them, but Richie and Bev didn’t bother to look. It was obviously not the first time they’d sang the song together. They moved around each other, flailing more than dancing. It was a miracle that Richie’s gangly limbs weren’t immediately tangled up in the microphone cable. He appeared longer everywhere, and Eddie didn't know if it was the shorter-than-usual shorts, or the boost from the 'stage' or just that fact that he danced (spasmed) next to Beverly, who was about a foot shorter than him. Both of them took huge deep breaths and screamed the first line, inciting a ripple of laughter that swept the bar with the intensity of a human wave at a baseball game.

 

_TOMMY USED TO WORK ON THE DOCKS_

_UNION’S BEEN ON STRIKE_

_HE’S DOWN ON HIS LUCK, IT’S TOUGH_

_SO TOUGH_

“This is going to be a hard act to follow.” Bill grinned and rib-poked Eddie, who barely registered the touch and couldn’t answer.

He was totally transfixed, staring right at Richie with a huge smile plastered on his face.   

When it came to public spectacles, there was a very fine line between what Eddie found to be endearing and embarrassing. Richie tightrope walked directly on top of that line most of the time, yet seemed to always lean a hair over the endearing side, no matter what. 

 

_SHE SAYS WE GOTTA HOLD ON, TO WHAT WE GOT_

_IT DOESN’T MAKE A DIFFERENCE IF WE MAKE IT OR NOT_

_WE GOT EACH OTHER, AND THAT’S A LOT FOR LOVE_

_WE’LL GIVE IT A SHOT!!_

 

Nearly everyone in the bar wore gigantic smiles, and a few people were singing along, even Stanley.

“I can’t HEAR YOU, O’NEIL’S.” Richie held his mic out, pointing it at the crowd, who picked up their volume.

Eddie’s voice wouldn’t work, but he mouthed the words, smiling so hard his cheeks were starting to hurt.

 

_OHHHHHHH, WE’RE HALF-WAY THERE_

_WOOOOAH-OOOH, LIVIN’ ON A PRAYER_

_TAKE MY HAND, AND WE’LL MAKE IT I SWEAR_

_WOOOOOAH-OH, LIVIN’ ON A PRAYER_

Bev and Richie finished the song to applause and whistles, and after a brief bow and curtsey, quickly headed towards the opposite end of the space, past Eddie and his friends without even a glance in their direction.

“Hey, wait up!” Eddie hopped off his stool and jogged over to them. “You guys were great!”

At the sound of his voice, they both stopped short, frozen, like burglars caught in the act. “Eds.” Richie turned back. His face was a little pinched, maybe guilty. “Me and Bevvie just gotta—”

“We’ll be right back,” Bev interjected, digging in her purse with one hand, “We have to—”

“Find a mailbox,” Richie said, at the same time Bev said, “Smoke.”

“A mailbox?” Eddie giggled, oblivious. “I’ll go out to smoke with you guys. I mean I don’t _smoke_ , but I don’t m—”

“Eddie, I have to put aloe on Richie’s back right now or he’s gonna die,” Bev blurted, clearly losing patience with the whole charade.

“Fuckin’ snitch!” Richie cried, scrunching up his face. He rolled his eyes and kept them fixed on the ceiling, adorably embarrassed and chewing on the inside of his lower lip.

Eddie tried not to smile too wide when he stated, “I can do it,” confidently, with authority.

Richie’s eyebrows quirked up and his jaw went slack. “You can?”

“Mm-hmm, in Mike’s office.” He pointed towards the door marked _Private_   and held out his other palm to receive the aloe.

Bev grinned right at Richie and chirped, “Perfect.” She pulled out the bottle and handed it over. “I’ll bring you guys a refill in two shakes.” They both watched as she skipped her way over to the stools, and climbed up onto Eddie’s abandoned seat.

“So…” Richie fiddled with his glasses. His voice was small and higher than normal. “Mike’s office?”

“Yeah,” Eddie replied, leading the way. He opened the door and leaned in to flick the light switch. As he ushered Richie inside, he looked back and caught eyes with Mike, who gave him a wink. He stuck his tongue out before shutting the door.

The small, windowless office was home to a desk, a few filing cabinets and an ancient leather couch that had once been nice, back when it belonged to Bill’s parents. After a few years being soaked in beer in an off-campus apartment, it slowly became withered and beat up. The thing was duct tape patched and studded with tiny holes from Mike’s dog’s claws.

Richie sucked on his lower lip as his eyes crept around the room. He took off his over shirt, revealing his bright pink upper arms. “Should I just whip it all out?” he asked, clutching the button-down against his front self-consciously. His vulnerability radiated out of him, almost as bright as the sunburn. The change in his demeanor was unexpected, considering the screaming, singing, joke-factory he’d been on stage.

“So shy all of a sudden,” Eddie cooed softly, unable to hide the fact that muted, less than confident Richie made him swoon. “Are you the same guy who was out there a few minutes ago?” He grinned and raised the bottle of aloe; an impression of Richie and his microphone. “ _'I can’t hear you, O’Neil’s.'_ ”

“That was performing,” he admitted with a half-shrug, tossing his shirt over the back of the couch. “You and me here?” He peeled his undershirt off with a small wince. “This is totally different.”

Eddie’s heart did a cartwheel and his head flooded with responses to those words.

He wanted to ask, _“Different how?”_ even though deep down he thought he knew what Richie meant. He also wanted to walk the two steps between them, grab the sides of Richie’s face and pull him lower for a long kiss, tell him _“Fuck your rules, it’s my birthday and you’re so fucking cute right now I can’t help it,”_ but the painful-looking tank-top shaped indent on Richie’s pink torso hit the brakes on Eddie’s behalf.  

“Oh, fuck, that’s bad.” Without hesitation, he perched himself on the arm of the couch and nodded towards the corner. “Sit down,” he directed, all stray thoughts of hooking up dashed away. Richie was obviously hurting and needed help. “How are you not crying right now?”

“I’m crying on the inside, Eds.” Richie sat sideways, and tipped his head forward, elongating his already lengthy neck. The skin on his back was molded with ribbing from his shirt, and reminded Eddie of when he used to press the edges of his sweater sleeves into his Playdoh.

“ _Richie_ ,” he groaned softly, “leave your tank top off for the rest of the night. Let this breathe.”

“Are you giving me permission to go almost-shirtless at your birthday party?”

“I am.” Eddie opened the cap on the aloe bottle. “I want you to be comfortable.”

“What a friggin’ angel.” Richie smiled over his shoulder. His whole body slumped as he sighed, visibly relaxing. “Can you give me a heads up before you put that stuff on? It’s so cold and Red just drops it on me with no warning.”

“Sure.” He squirted some of the aloe into his hands and rubbed them together, attempting to warm it up a little. “Here it comes.”

When Eddie’s palms landed on those hot shoulders, Richie let loose a soft whine of relief that would’ve been hot if Eddie wasn’t in full business mode. In the darkness of the bar, he’d offered his assistance cheekily, eager to have an excuse to feel up on Richie. But in the sobering fluorescent light of Mike’s office, his tune changed. All he cared about was serving up comfort to Richie, and quickly. He worked in sections: top, middle, bottom. The cool gel put a barrier between their skin, and Eddie barely felt the contact, but he saw Richie’s responses: the way he arched back into the touch, the puffs of his quickening breaths spreading his ribcage. “Better?”

“Fucking amazing, Eddie,” Richie breathed. “Thank you.” He made another noise; a moan-sigh hybrid that made Eddie’s dick twitch of its own accord, mocking his assessment of himself as a pure, helpful soul. 

“You’re welcome.” He slid his hands down Richie’s sides, the last of the skin he could reach from behind. Stretching his fingers as long as they went, he let them creep around, and the tips just grazed Richie’s obliques, making him shiver. Unable to help himself, Eddie bit his lip and clenched his eyes shut before asking, “Do you need me to do your front, too?”

Richie laughed sharply at that and turned so he was sitting properly on the couch. “I can do my own front,” he said sheepishly with a shy smile, eyes fixed on the floor. He grabbed the bottle and got to work putting the gel on his chest. “You should know, though,” he stage-whispered, “Later, when I  _do my front?_   I’ll be thinking about you rubbing aloe on my back.”

“No shit.” Eddie grinned as he rubbed his hands together to get rid of the excess aloe. “But  _I_   won’t,” he declared, self-righteous and smug, but half-lying, “because I’m too sympathetic of a person to get turned on while you have first-degree burns”

“What a bullshit artist,” Richie hummed, pointing a lubed finger at Eddie’s face. “Sorry to break it to you Blushy, but those cheekies are the same color as my tits.” He finished up swiping aloe down the front of his arms.

Someone pounded on the door, just as Eddie claimed, “It’s a beer flush,” in a tiny voice, not even convincing himself.

“We don’t want any,” Richie called to whomever had knocked. He was still grinning at Eddie’s feeble excuse and wiping his hands off on the front of his shorts.

Eddie shook his head as he got up and cracked the door, letting the music from the karaoke machine spill into the room: Bill and Stan were singing (crowing) a duet;   _I Got You Babe_. The interruption came from Bev. She delivered the beers she’d promised them and urged that they hurry the fuck up. Eddie took the pint glasses and told her they’d be out as soon as Richie dried off.

“Sounds like we’re missing choice karaoke out there,” Richie lamented, accepting the glass Eddie handed him. The smile had left his face, and he stared down his long nose into the amber liquid with his eyebrows tensed and lips slightly parted. He leaned his elbows on his knees, and exhaled loudly. “Before we go back, I wanna run something by you and see what you think.”

Sitting down beside Richie on the couch, Eddie narrowed his eyes, focusing on the other man’s tricep, where a shiny patch of absorbing aloe caught the light. “Why does this seem ominous?”

“I swear, it’s not,” Richie insisted, but the long pause he took and his lack of eye contact communicated otherwise. “How do you feel about getting up early?” he asked finally, before taking a huge swallow from his drink.

Eddie took a matching sip of his own shandy. “Depends on  _how early_   and  _when_ ,  I guess,” he answered uneasily. 

One corner of Richie's mouth turned up. “How early? Five-thirty. When? Next Saturday. Who? Me and you. Why—” 

“Wait, five-thirty in the  _morning_ _?”_  Eddie squeaked, a little bit crushed, but still receptive. “I don’t even get up that early for work.”

Richie raised one finger and an eyebrow. “But will you get up that early for high tide? That’s the real question.”

Dropping his shoulders a bit, Eddie sat up straighter. Richie always had so much faith in his abilities, even after one lesson when he sucked. “You really think I’m ready for that?”

"I do." Richie nodded, totally serious. “And I think it would be highway robbery for me to take you out on a foamie for a few more lessons that you don’t need. You; your new board; big-boy waves; real surfer hours.” His head dipped slightly, but he watched Eddie carefully, peeking from under his thick lashes. “Pretty sure it'll be our last lesson," he added softly.

Eddie’s stomach jumped; a twin sensation to the one he’d experience after the first drop on a roller coaster. Their _last lesson_ ,  and the implications of what that meant for both of them. That’s why Richie hesitated, and why his face looked like that: he was nervous, and obviously insecure, based on his comments that morning about peacocks and Eddie ‘only being after a good time.’ But he didn’t actually have anything to be insecure about. Or maybe he did, what did Eddie know?

Sitting there, silently sliding puzzle pieces together in his head, Eddie must have been quiet for too long, because Richie cleared his throat.

“Okay. If you think I can do it, I trust you.” Eddie could have said something more reassuring than that, but he had a better idea. He stood up and grabbed Richie’s button-down shirt, dropping it into his lap. “Let’s go back out there. I just settled on which song I'm singing.”

 

*

 

When they rejoined the group, everyone gave them smirky side-eyes. Beverly—lit up like a lantern and beyond chummy with Stanley—filled them in on what they’d missed. Bill and Stan had apparently brought the house down with their Sonny and Cher routine, and Eddie could have kicked himself for failing to be present for it. His friends had been sweethearts in high school, but the relationship hadn’t survived their first year of college. They remained close, but not love-song-karaoke-duet-close, not for a while.

 _“Which one of you is Cher?”_  Richie’d asked, super interested.

 _“He is,”_  they’d answered in unison, making Bev scream with laughter.

The rest of the night went by in a blur of beer and bad singing. As the body count in the bar thinned out, their group got rowdier, though Richie, unexpectedly, did not. He sat on the stool beside Eddie, shirt open and pink chest exposed, amused but quiet, observing the action around them and leaning in to murmur well-timed jokes close to Eddie’s face. He and Bev went off to smoke twice, and the boys pounced like vultures in their absence, demanding to know what happened in Mike’s office.

Eddie told them next to nothing, but his mind cascaded with tipsy ramblings.

_Truth be told guys, very little happened in there, but also a lot? This morning he insinuated that all I wanted was a good time, but if that were true, would I put his comfort above my dick on a list from most-important to least-important?_

Immediately after one of her smoking trips, Bev dragged Ben into the mix, begging him to sing a duet with her until he relented, flushing scarlet, every bit as _blushy_   as Richie’d surmised. They did a stirring rendition of _Leather and Lace_   that was super affecting, not because of their vocal abilities, but because their chemistry was so strong it was nearly texturized.

Poor, sober Mike took four minutes away from being the busiest bar owner in Long Island to roll his eyes through a Katy Perry hit with his employee—her song choice, and a bonus for her herculean efforts that night: the thrill of witnessing her boss embarrass himself. He shrugged off their raucous applause and declared, _“I’m a Gaga,”_   into the mic before stepping down. 

When there were only eight minutes of karaoke left, Eddie’s number hadn’t come up yet, and he jiggled his foot, growing more nervous by the second. He had loads of experience standing alone in front of an audience through work, but he rarely sang anywhere other than his car. He picked a song that was a little high for his register, and though the possibility that he would suck _added_   to the mounting anxiety, it wasn’t the source of his worries. The title he’d written on the little slip of paper was a statement, and the lyrics were a declaration that he only wanted Richie to hear. A message with an intended audience of one, sung to his closest friends and a few drunken stragglers.

“This might be the last song of the night,” Ben said into the mic, his words sending a panicked jolt though Eddie’s heart. “I’m a rookie and I need to start packing it—"

“BOOO! STAY FOREVER,” Bev shouted, cupping her hands around her mouth.

“Down, girl.” Mike grinned, using a finger to slide Bev’s drink away from her by the napkin beneath it, pretending to cut her off. “He’ll be here next Saturday.”

Ben smiled over at Bev as he said, “Everyone give a warm welcome to Eddie.”

The squeals and shouts from his friends were so loud that Eddie ducked involuntarily.

Richie’s big hands clamped over his shoulders, massaging him and pulling him taller, like he was about to step up to a huge opponent in a prize fight. “Go rock this shit,” he whispered, hot against Eddie’s ear.

On shaky legs, he hopped off his stool and made his way up to the stage. As soon as he turned around and felt the lights on his face, an intense urge to run out of the bar made his knees tremble. He realized immediately that he wasn’t nearly drunk enough to sing in front of strangers, but the song started before he had a chance to back out. Keeping his eyes down, he sang softly to the floor.

 

_All I want to get is_

_A little bit closer_

_All I want to know is_

_Can you come a little closer?_

_Here comes the breath, before we get_

_A little bit closer_

_Here comes the rush, before we touch_

_Come a little closer_

Eddie cautioned a glance up to find a dwindled audience, all wearing near-identical soft expressions, with Richie’s being softest of all. He sat between Bill and Bev with one elbow leaned on the bar, fingers curled across his lower face, eyebrows crimped and lips a little pouty.

That visual sang its own song to Eddie and he unclenched, closing his eyes and bopping through the chorus, pretending like he was singing all alone on the drive to work.

 

 

_It’s not just all physical_

_I’m the type who won’t get oh so critical_

_So, let’s make things physical_

_I won’t treat you like you’re oh so typical_

_All you think of lately, is getting underneath me_

_All I dream of lately, is how to get you underneath me_

_Here comes the heat, before we meet_

_A little bit closer_

_Here comes the spark, before the dark_

_A little bit closer_

_It’s not just all physical_

_I’m the type who won’t get oh so critical_

_So, let’s make things physical_

_I won’t treat you like you’re oh so typical_

 

 

 

His friends’ cheers erupted before the song faded out. Eddie left the stage and edged a wide arch around the curve leading back to the bar, his mind cycling faster than a washing machine. He thought the anticipation of seeing Richie’s reaction to his performance might kill him. When the bar came into his view, two things were apparent: Richie was gone, and the bar was on fire.

“What the f—” Eddie got cut off by a horribly off-key chorus of _Happy Birthday,_ carried mostly by Bev and Stan. The ‘fire’ was just a miniscule cheesecake with a ridiculous number of burning candles sticking out of it. It sat right in front of the empty stool Richie’d been occupying a moment before. Eddie shook his head, huffy because he’d vetoed a cake, but he couldn’t help but smile. Something hot pressed up behind him, and long arms snaked around, encircling his chest.

“Is this close enough for you?” Richie’s chin hooked over Eddie’s shoulder.

As if he’d done it a million times before, Eddie melted back against Richie’s front while a warm buzz spread through his body quicker than lightening. “For now,” he breathed, leaning his head to the side so their temples kissed.

“Come make a wish,” Bev urged, sweet and smiley.

“Yeah, quick.” Mike beckoned him closer with hand flap. “Before the fire alarm goes off.”

“O’shit, would it?” Stan hung his head back and looked up at the ceiling. “Are there sprinklers?”

“Go ahead and blow ‘em out. Get that wish.” Richie loosened his hold and Eddie stepped forward reluctantly.

_I don’t need to make a wish, because it’s already coming true._

He blew all the candles out with one big puff.

 

*

 

They’d devoured the cake, and Mike announced last call early, kicking the clientele to the curb in record time. Cleaning up the bar took precedence over anything else. The tender moment that Eddie and Richie had shared didn’t get an encore, and the night was over.

_Almost over._

“Why don’tcha guys push Mikey into turning this place into a gay bar?” Richie stood on the sidewalk, peering up at the hanging wooden sign as he smoked. The tank top he’d shed was hung over his neck like a towel.

Eddie leaned against the brick exterior of the bar, watching Bev flirt with Ben as the others helped him load his truck a few parking spaces down. The sober karaoke master had agreed to give Richie and Bev a ride home as soon as his equipment was packed up. Mike didn’t need to offer similar services to his friends; it was expected that he’d be their designated driver.

“We’ve brought it up to him before, mostly joking. He’d do it, but going through a full rebranding is dangerous for a new business owner.”

Richie smiled and nodded, but his expression was far away, like he wasn’t really listening. “Did you have a good birthday?” He pitched his butt towards the curb and took one step with his long legs that put him directly in front of Eddie.

“Yeah,” Eddie whispered, eyes getting caught in Richie’s hair. The coiffed curls he’d shown up in were just a memory. Time and humidity had left them frizzy and wild, more Richie-like. Eddie liked them better that way. “It was a really, really, long day, though.”

“The longest,” Richie agreed as he placed his hands on the wall on either side of Eddie’s head. The spread of his arms made the fabric of his shirt open a bit more, exposing his sunburn and the dark hair on his chest. "Coming a little closer." He grinned, self-satisfied with his second reference to the song Eddie'd sung.

All Eddie wanted was to reach a hand out and slide it into Richie's shirt, up and around his back, tuck the other one in the waistband of his shorts and pull him _much_   closer. But he didn't. “You should go home and take a cold shower.”

With a huff of a laugh, Richie cocked his head like a confused puppy. “Full of yourself, huh Eds?”

“No, dummy,” he chuckled, “it'll help your sunburn feel better.”

He nodded again, eyes serious and studying Eddie’s face. “Both reasons apply, though.”

“Then maybe I have a right to be full of myself,” Eddie whispered. He gave up leaning back and stood to his full height, putting their faces only inches apart.

“You definitely do.” Richie stared right at Eddie's lips, licking his own. “You get me flustered in a way that I haven't--" He puffed air out of his mouth and widened his eyes. "It’s just fuckin’ bizarre.”

Those words hit Eddie in the ego and sent him floating. He wanted to tell Richie that he felt the opposite, because he was decidedly  _not_   flustered. For the first time, maybe ever, Eddie felt like he could be completely himself with a guy he liked. Not just any guy, though, it was all Richie. Richie, whose energy invited Eddie to try things that were scary, stick his toes up to the ledge of a skyscraper and look down. In the beginning, flustered might have described him, back when he still had a bumbling crush, but over time, the feeling was replaced with something else. Familiarity. Trust. Acceptance.

Eddie opened his mouth to answer, to say anything, to tell Richie _"Instead of going home, let’s go get coffee at the diner down the street,"_   but a car horn made him jump before his tongue cooperated.

“Train’s leaving the station, Tozier.” Bev appeared out of thin air beside them, completely ruining the moment.

Richie let go of the wall and backed up a pace. “Uh yeah, so, I’ll probably talk to you before next week, but—”

“Um, right,” Eddie hummed absently as Bev gathered him into a hug.

“I hope you had the best birthday,” she purred, squeezing the life out of him.

“I did, thank you. Thanks for coming.”

Bev pulled back and jerked her head towards Ben’s truck. “Two minutes, or you’re sleeping in your Jeep.” She headed down the block, walking backwards.

“Fuck,” Richie moaned, switching gears, “think she'll be be okay on the street overnight?”

She reached the truck and opened the door. “Say goodbye, Richie.”

“ _'Goodbye, Richie,'_ ” he whined to her in a nasally voice, and then grinned, turning his attention back to Eddie.

Eddie shrugged. “Your car will be fine parked here.”

“Jeep,” Richie corrected, clearly out of habit.

“Jeep,” he repeated, rolling his eyes.

“So—”

“So,” Eddie parroted again, biting back a smile.

“Are we playing the shadow game and no one told me?”

“You have two minutes,” Eddie reminded him.

“Right. So… uh.” Richie blinked rapidly and worked his jaw, but no words came out.

“Flustered?” Eddie offered, and the smile he’d been fighting took over.

“Bizarre,” Richie stated with a single nod. "Uncanny."

He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Richie as gently as he could, and Richie accepted the hug, squeezing back. It felt just as warm and natural as the one they shared in the bar. Eddie's chest thumped a bongo beat. He didn't want to say goodbye. "Sorry if this hurts you." 

“Kid, you could tap dance on my head when I have a migraine and I think I’d allow it.” He pecked a quick kiss on the side of Eddie’s head. "But you're too much of a sweetheart to do that."

Mike’s car pulled up in front of the bar and honked two blasts.

“Five more minutes, Mom,” Richie whispered, not letting go. "Fuck. It's over."

“No," Eddie corrected him, releasing his hold. "It hasn't even started yet."

"Yowza." Smiling slowly, Richie backed away, towards his idling ride home. "Smooth."

Eddie flashed Richie one last smile and walked over to Mike's car without looking back. He got into the backseat next to a sleeping Stanley, and shut the door.

"Did you at least get a kiss?" Bill asked from the front seat.

"Sorta, but not really," he answered, unwilling to elaborate further. He leaned his head against the cool glass of the window and closed his eyes.

_Ask me again next week, Billy, I think the answer will be better._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bon Jovi - [Livin' on a Prayer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lDK9QqIzhwk)  
> Sonny and Cher - [I Got You Babe ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ylGrQVL774k%20)  
> Stevie Nicks and Don Henley - [Leather and Lace ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iLEMiDrdSKU)  
> Tegan and Sara - [Closer ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9e9NSMY8QiQ)  
> Insert whatever Katy Perry song you picture Mike singing.


	10. been down so goddamn long

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An early morning lesson. The last lesson, and Richie's apprehension has reached peak capacity.

Richie hovered in the space between asleep and awake, snuggling deeper into his blanket and waiting for his alarm to blare for the third time. The weather outside had been unseasonably chilly for a few days, but the central air still pumped away, turning his bedroom into a fridge. He preferred it that way, but cold air didn’t exactly encourage an up-and-at-em attitude at the ass crack of dawn.

The chill wasn’t the only thing keeping him in bed. At some point midweek (which was by no coincidence the last time he’d shaved) a low-grade anxious buzz took up residence in his gut. He’d get himself immersed in work, wrangling the kids who made up his surf camp, and the feeling would subside, but during the quiet moments it’d come back on its own full-force, a low lurch, reminding him, poking at him from inside. 

_Last lesson._

Nerve-racking for multiple reasons, some personal, some professional. The morning ahead would test them both: Richie as an instructor and Eddie as a student. The mostly-unspoken expectations of what would happen when the lesson ended lurked beneath that, but he tried to prioritize his panic.

There was a point to their going to the beach so early in the morning. For Richie to officially declare it the last lesson, he had to be completely comfortable with the idea of Eddie going off to surf all alone. That meant he needed to see Eddie wipe out—not for shits and giggles, but to observe how he handled it—so the training wheels had to be removed.

The fiberglass board Eddie’d bought for himself was narrower and had less grip than the foamie he’d used to practice, and the swells would top out at four and a half feet by the time they got into the water. A perfect recipe for taking a header into the waves, one that Richie’d cooked up, but he already felt himself preparing to hesitate. Deep down he wanted to keep the kid from falling, which was a problem. It meant he was too close to the situation.

Eddie’d been so anxious at the beginning; so totally unsure and out of place. Richie’d had the privilege of watching him change: from a nervous person who was shy about paddling around in the low breakers, to someone who rode easy waves to the shore with authority.

He couldn't decide which was sexier: Eddie’s sturdy golden body, or the confidence he’d built up inside of it over the past eight weeks. A serious wipe had the potential to ruin that confidence, set him back, or scare him off surfing entirely. Richie hoped it wouldn't, because falling off, fucking up, swallowing sea water: they were all a part of riding waves. Everything Richie’d taught him so far was long-game preparation. Just repetitions that would eventually—in the heat of the moment—become natural muscle memory responses. A lot of hours invested, money spent, but the most important lessons would be taught by Eddie himself when he met a challenge head on and found his own footing.

The electronic bells of Richie’s phone alarm began their song, and he moaned out loud.

“Get up!” Bev’s croaky yell sounded hollow and fed up through his bedroom wall, and the unexpected thump of her feet hitting the floor made Richie’s eyes pop open. Her approaching barefoot stomps exuded frustration. She appeared in his doorway; a half-dressed blur, back-lit by the hallway night light. “Richie, if you hit that fucking snooze one more time— I have to be at work in four hours and I wanna go back to sleep.”

He tossed his blanket back and reluctantly sat up, groping a hand over the tousled sheets to silence his phone.  _4:53 AM_. “ ‘Kay, m’up. For real.”

“About time,” Bev said flatly, walking away, calling behind her, “I mean it; one more snooze and I’m moving out.”

Ignoring the empty threat, Richie grabbed his glasses, hopped out of bed and followed Bev into her bedroom. She looked exactly like a wilted dandelion with limbs, and he felt a stab of guilt as he watched her crawl underneath her quilt and yank it over her head, but he asked her what he needed to hear anyway. “So uh, what do you think’s gonna happen today?” He cringed after he said it, because he’d asked her nearly the same question the night before.

“Jesus.” Bev’s voice came out muffled. “I think I’ll fall asleep at my desk and get fired.”

He leaned back and pushed himself up with both hands until he was sitting on top of her dresser. “You know what I meant.”

“For fuck’s sake.” She flung the blanket off of her head. “Nervous,  _help-somebody-likes-me_ Richie is usually cute, but right now I wanna choke you.”

“You know it’s not about that.” He fiddled with her music box, the one with the pirouetting ballerina that she’d had since she was twelve. “Not entirely,” he added softly. “Can you give me a real answer?”

“You’re gonna show up late and piss him off.”

“Bev I’m dyin’ here.”

Bev sighed. “He really likes you; it’s so obvious. And if it’s not about that, if it’s the other thing...you said he’s pretty good at surfing for a noob. So why are you dying?”

_Why am I dying? Such a good question, Red._

Richie stressed over it, because he wanted more than anything for his passion to become his career, and Eddie was basically the test subject that proved him a success or failure.

He stressed, because he wanted the change he saw in Eddie to stick, and not because he thought it was hot, but for Eddie to have that confidence inside himself for keeps.

Because he honest-to-goodness liked Eddie as a person, so much so that it scared him. Because they’d been in a forced-to-see-one-another-every-Saturday phase for two months, and he didn’t know what was going to happen when that ended. Because he was terrible at dating, always second guessing what was too fast or too slow. Because his last relationship ended with his being dumped, discouraged, and depressed. Because the part of him that he kept hidden underneath jokes and flagrant enthusiasm was easily bruised meat.

But Beverly already knew all of that. She knew him better than anyone else.

Instead of laying out a laundry list of anxieties she’d already listened to, Richie gave her the God’s honest truth. “I guess because I’m a total dumbass?”

“No shit.” Bev sat up and flicked the switch on her bedside lamp, flooding the room with soft amber light that made them both squint. “Instead of me telling you my opinion, indulge me: what do you  _want_   to happen today?”

“I want to find one of those remote controls—y’know like the one the guy had in  _Click—_ so I can fast-forward to three weeks from now and see if everything is peaches or bananas. Peaches is the ideal outcome, but ban—”

“Richard, it’s five in the morning. As painful as it is for you, I need you to either be serious or get the fuck out of my room.”

Richie chewed on the inside corner of his lip. “I want to have the kind of lesson where I’m in total awe of how good he is the entire time, and then after, I ask him out to breakfast and he says yes.” 

“Then that’s what’ll happen. He’ll be fine.” She turned out the light and rolled on her side. “You will too, if you just hold your shit together.” 

Grinning, Richie flicked the porcelain ballerina, so the spring clanged. Talking things out with Bev always helped. “Then halfway through breakfast we end up with our pants down in the third stall of a semi-fancy restaurant, and the bathroom attendant is like listening and lowkey into it—”  

“Out!” Her arm raised and pointed at the door. “Now, beat it. Make it happen.  _If you build it, they will come_. But hurry up, you don’t have time to shave anymore.”

“Fuck. I don’t, huh?” Richie jumped down from his perch. “Thanks, Red. For—”

“For being the best; I know. Byeeee.”

 

*

 

**_**

**(05:09a) Flustered: heyyyy gm sunshine. dont foget, cool air cool water so early am is perfect time for a wetsuit. unless you like cutting glass with your nips, which I mean who doesnt**

**(05:11a) Eds: this reminder would’ve been helpful if I wasn’t already in line to get us coffee. Black with like 1000 sugars right?**

**(05:11a) Flustered: closer to 4 than 1000 prob but yeah :) thanks**

**(05:12a) Eds: see ya in 15. I know your drive takes 8 mins so if ur late :skull:**

**(05:13a) Flustered: if im late its curtains ik**

 

**_**

 

* 

Richie multi-tasked during his four-minute shower, brushing his teeth while he slathered Bev’s pear soap all over his body. He dried and dressed quickly, choosing the least gaudy board shorts he owned and a dark thermal hoodie. After sweeping his damp hair into a half bun, he put in his contacts. There was no reason to worry about night sand blowing into his eyes, because it existed as a soggy mass before the sun spent hours toasting it until it was light enough to float.

Blinking a last look at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, he sighed. Darkened under-eyes from a lack of sleep. Scruffy jawline. A tuft of chest hair poked out just above the zipper of his sweatshirt, along with a swatch of the pathetic, freckly tan left in the wake of his bad burn. He looked like shit warmed over, but he lied openly to himself as he flipped off the light. “It doesn’t matter what you look like; you’re just going there to watch someone else surf. No. Big. Deal.”

It’d been so long since he’d taken a predawn drive to the beach that he’d forgotten the serenity of it. All that calm, only slightly marred by eeriness: clear, midnight-blue sky getting paler by the second; desolate roads. Every other person in a five-mile radius could’ve been sleeping, but they also could’ve been wiped out by a plague. Richie kept the radio low, because the soft-top was far from sound proof, and he was somehow (maybe for the first time in his life) hyper-aware of his impact on the neighborhood; on the quiet town’s streets; on Earth.

The little red sedan sat in the otherwise empty lot, but Eddie was nowhere in sight. Richie parked, and an absurd surge of tingly nerves lit up his belly as he hopped out of the Jeep and unstrapped his surfboard from the roof. It was the first time he brought _his_ board; a waste, because he only needed it as a lounge chair. He ambled across the blacktop and onto the path to the beach hastily, like he was late, though he had two minutes to spare. When he hit the clearing he stopped short and choked on a gasp, totally gobsmacked. It wasn't the sprawling sand, or the transitional colors of the sky that took his breath, though he had a soft spot in his heart for both of those things. 

Eddie'd set himself up with the nose of his board facing the pinkening horizon, just a few feet behind where the water kissed the shore. He stood on top of it with his back to the path and his arms spread to his full wingspan, his traps engaged and practically rippling, wearing those red shorts that Richie’d seen before and nothing else. The breeze coming off the water was chilly but if Eddie felt it, there was no outward indication, and a light-colored sweater was abandoned in a lump beside him in the sand. He looked impossibly hot and carefree. Arching down from the waist, he tipped and stretched his hamstrings without bending his knees, hands gripping onto his ankles. The dimples on the small of his back sunk into his skin and shifted as he walked his fingers forward towards the tip of his board until he planked.

Something might have short-circuited somewhere in Richie’s brain, because he couldn’t move or breathe or think. He stood there, just staring at Eddie through the dim haze of dissipating fog, trying to keep a grip on his board while his fingers turned to rubber. A brief jumble of images flashed behind his eyes: Eddie peeling those shorts down and frantically kicking them away; their mouths crashing together sloppily; Eddie pressing up behind him; Eddie spread beneath him; both of them sweaty and panting on the floor of Richie’s bedroom.

Richie snapped out of it by letting the cool sand under his bare feet ground him, and he forced them to move, one and then the other, grateful that the shorts he chose that morning were sufficiently loose and dark.  _You're here to do a job,_  he thought, an internal scolding specifically meant for his dick.   _Job. Working. Client. A fuckin’ hot one in little shorty shorts_ ,  _but a client for at least another hour, so quit it already. Be an adult for once in your fucking life._

He dropped his board next to Eddie’s. Too close. Closer than usual. The sound of it slapping against the damp sand made the other man jump. “I thought you said you didn’t do yoga, ya grimy little liar.” So much for being an adult, but his voice came out calm and confident, like he intended. Cards held to the chest.

Without urgency, Eddie brought himself to standing and turned, crossing his arms loosely. There was a pillow crease that ran from his right eyebrow to the apple of his cheek, but his eyes were wide awake and amused; his lower lip rosy and wet. “I’m doing stretches to keep warm. Not all stretches are yoga.” He glanced down Richie’s front and one corner of that pink mouth turned up. “That’s the most boring thing I’ve ever seen you wear. Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m doing absolutely fantastic, Eds,” Richie said, his second lie of the morning. He plopped onto his ass in the middle of his board and sat cross-legged. “Everything’s comin’ up Milhouse.”

“No really.” Eddie knelt on his own board, cocking his head slightly and appraising Richie thoughtfully. “You look kinda like…a sad bank robber.” He grinned wide, and Richie couldn’t help but return it. “But I like the hair.”

“Thanks. Someone told me a whale of a tale: that I had a cup of coffee coming to me?” Richie changed the subject, stretching out his waggling fingers. “Did you also lie about that, yoga master?”

Eddie sighed at the insinuation, shoulders dropping a hair. His lashes fluttered a nanoseconds’ worth of an eye roll before he twisted around, reaching for the cup that sat beside his sweater. The waistband of his shorts shifted down, exposing his tan line. They seemed a tad looser on him, which made sense: over the course of their work, Eddie’s body had subtly changed along with his confidence levels—his upper arms and shoulders most obviously, but that might’ve just been Richie’s perception. They were the parts most likely to be bare and available for viewing.

Richie’s eyes roved on their own while Eddie’s back was turned, gluing to his waist, where he had soft and inviting looking love handles just under his obliques. They were probably something that made him insecure, but they were cute, like the rest of him.

“Quit staring at me,” he said lightly (either psychically or assuming) before he turned back around and passed Richie his coffee.

“Tall order in those shorts,” Richie admitted. He took a sip and looked up. The sky was about to put on a show for them: lavenders and pinks and golds. But they weren’t there to take in the scenery. “So, uh, wanna get started? Practicing your pop-ups before you head out there is really important on this one.” He paused and cleared his throat. “That board is a toothpick compared to—”

“I practice pop-ups on this board almost every day,” Eddie cut in, firm but delicate, like he was embarrassed to admit it.

Richie pictured it: Eddie perched on top of the board in sweat pants and a tank top, back arched, the cuts of his triceps appearing and disappearing while the television droned in the background. A perfect little student; the best one he could have asked for. He smiled slowly, leaning a little closer. “You do not.”

“Do too.” Eddie shifted to face the ocean, the slightest hint of tension appearing between his eyebrows in the form of a crease. “And I can pop-up in my living room no problem, but those waves,” he pointed at them and quickly pulled his hand back to run it through his hair, “are so much bigger than—” He stopped mid-sentence and stared out at the horizon, where the orange glow of the rising sun crested at the edge of the water line, setting a sliver of the pastel sky on fire. Both his eyes and his voice lowered a fraction. “I know I’m gonna fall off.”  

_There he is. There's that nervous kid I shook hands with in May; Hiya buddy._

“Yeah, you’re gonna fall, kid, but everyone does,” Richie said quickly, and he hoped reassuringly. He fought the urge to reach out and grab Eddie’s hand, because he was pretty sure the small gesture of comfort would light a fuse that couldn’t be extinguished. “It’s not as bad as you think it’ll be.”

Richie’s words seemed to be enough, because Eddie’s brow softened and lost its furrow. He sat up a bit straighter and rolled his shoulders back in a rhythm. “Yeah, but I really hate getting water up my nose.”

“Personally, I love it. Especially when it goes up my nose and comes back out my mouth,” Richie said, joking, but feeling way too serious underneath it. He watched the sinews that stretched over Eddie’s clavicles, and the way his tan skin glided with each rotation of his joints. “It’s an acquired taste, though. Like pickle juice.”

Eddie stopped his stretching. “You’re really good at that.”

“Good at what?” Richie raised his eyebrows. “Bullshitting?”

“Distracting me from what I’m nervous about by turning it into a joke.”  He got up from his board and walked the two paces between them, sitting down beside Richie. “I wish I met you when I was still in undergrad.”

Richie smirked without answering because it was all he could manage. Speechless-mode was a rare occurrence for him, and Eddie had a knack for hitting all the right notes to unlock it. He sipped his coffee to keep himself from blurting something stupid, though the caffeine did him no favors. His pulse had started hammering in his ears as soon as Eddie made the choice to board hop. Every other lesson had begun with banter, but they always got to work shortly after hitting the sand. Sitting close together; unsolicited compliments; picking up coffee. Richie felt something rumbling his way, like the vibration of an approaching subway train.

Breaking the silence, Eddie added, “You’re also good at growing a beard,” with a little smile.

Richie set his coffee down and shifted left to get a better view of Eddie; angelic, glowing Eddie who seemed to absorb the sunlight creeping up behind his shoulder. “I’m not growing a beard,” he said quietly, “I just didn’t have time to shave.”

“For a week?” Smiling. Teasing. Adorable.

“Nah, three days. Impressive, huh?”

“It looks good on you.” Eddie lifted his hand up and tentatively stroked Richie’s cheek, a tickling, feather-light touch that Richie leaned into involuntarily.

He took Eddie’s hand in his own, pulled it down away from his face but held onto it, studying it, observing the size difference between them and hoping that Eddie didn't register the snare drum beat his pulse thumped. “I thought you said I looked like a bummed out criminal.”

“So what if you do? Maybe I’m into that. Don’t kink shame me.”

Richie grinned and spread his palm, pressing it flat against Eddie’s. “I bet I could murder you in thumb wrestling.”

“All the things my hand can do, and that's what you want?” Eddie asked, obviously still teasing, wiggling his fingers but keeping them flush on Richie’s. 

“Plot twist: my thumb is inside my pants—” Soft lips connected with his unexpectedly, shutting him up in the sweetest way possible. He closed his eyes and let the kiss take him over.

Eddie’s hands cupped his face, short thumbs brushing over his fuzzy cheeks, and Richie countered, wrapping his arms around Eddie, smoothing over the warm skin on his upper back, pulling him closer. Their teeth clicked together, and the sensation pushed an embarrassing noise out of Richie. It came from deep in his belly; a sound that reminded him of a recording his mother liked to listen to during long car rides. 

_Whale Sounds for Relaxation._

He wanted to laugh at himself for it, and was surprised that Eddie didn’t, but they were both lost. In deep. Every inch of Richie scorched. All the blood in his veins rocketed into his lower half, and he wanted to move his mouth lower, taste Eddie’s neck, his chest, his stomach, his come. Instead he held fast and deepened the kiss, pushing his tongue between Eddie’s parted lips. They both tasted like bitter coffee mixed with toothpaste, and their rhythm didn’t quite mesh. An awkward, nose-bumping, searching and messy first kiss, but neither of them showed any signs of backing off.

Inching closer, Eddie slid his hands down Richie’s neck, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind. He moved them farther down, over the plush fabric of Richie’s hoodie, snaking them around his body, fingers exploring underneath the hem, exposing his lower back and crawling their way up his spine.

_Rip it off me, Eds. Fuck, rip your shorts off, too._

That’s when Richie snapped out of it, breaking the kiss. “Fuck,” he breathed, letting go of Eddie and slapping himself on the forehead. “Time out. I didn't wanna do this until we were done.”

Eddie kept his hands where they were, fingers tickling lightly. His lower face grew red from stubble-rub and his dreamy eyes traveled around Richie's face, obviously not listening to a thing he said. “You’re super fucking cute, you know? I wanna bite your nose.”

Chuckling, Richie shook his head bashfully. “So who’s stoppin’ ya?”

Removing his hands from under Richie’s sweatshirt, Eddie scooted back a bit. “Your morals, apparently.”

“It’s not that I have—  I mean, I guess I do, but I just—” He heaved a long breath. “Technically, you're paying me to be here right now. I’m supposed to be teaching you and all I wanna do is suck your dick on a public beach. What does that make me?”

Eddie shrugged one shoulder and grinned. “A really hands-on and generous teacher?”

“Stop it,” Richie laughed. “It’s the most unethical shit in the whole world, Eddie.”

“The guy who wore a fringed  _Pink Floyd_   belly shirt to work gives this much of a shit about being ethical.” For the first time that morning, Eddie’s spirit seemed diminished. He hugged onto his knees, made himself smaller. “What is all this really about, Richie? Do you even like me?”

“Of course, I like you; I really like you a lot.” He picked up his coffee and took a sip to stall, trying to preselect the right words. Honest words, instead of a typical, goofy tangent meant to deflect. “This is about being an adult. Feeling for a long time like I wasn’t one—not  a  _real one_   anyway—and suddenly becoming one.” Richie kept his eyes on Eddie’s vacant board while he spoke. “Career path, five year plan, whole nine, only to turn around and cream my pants over a client like I’m in goddamned eleventh grade? I wanna be successful as a teacher, and I want you to be successful as a surfer, and I wanna feel like…like whatever we end up doing afterwards is separate from all of that.” He stopped talking, immediately regretting the word vomit. Other than the soft hiss-thunder of the ocean crashing, there was silence for a long beat.

Standing up, Eddie released a soft huff. “Then let’s finish the lesson,” he said simply. He went over to his board and flipped it around, so the nose faced away from the sun. “Fifteen full reps, okay?” Patiently taking the lead, accepting Richie’s outpouring without comment or judgment. A killer student and probably an even better partner.

Richie bit down on his tongue to keep from responding, because anything he uttered would’ve been hypocritical coming out of the mouth of someone who’d just made a full-fledged case for maintaining professionalism. He scrambled to stand up gracelessly, and turned his board to match Eddie’s.They both started the warm-up that served as the opener for all their lessons, their movements perfectly in sync. Halfway through, Richie took off his hoodie and tossed it aside. He focused on the moves and let them relax him. It was amazing that they still held that power, considering he’d been doing them for so many years. Every other sequence his eyes went rogue, googling over to watch Eddie work. His pops were tight, low to the board, and his reps flowed, each one more beautiful than the last. Richie made a mental note to ask him if he’d ever studied dance or gymnastics.

When they finished, Richie found his voice and explained that he wouldn’t be joining Eddie in the water. He was there to observe, and to lend a hand on the off-chance that Eddie got into trouble out there, that was all. Eddie knew what needed to be done, he didn’t doubt it, but he rattled off instructions anyway.

 _“Paddle out, you know how far. Anticipate the breakers and choose your moment. Paddle fast back this way; pop after you’re locked; keep low.”_ It was all a bunch of  _Yadda Yadda,_ shit he’d already said in previous lessons, but he added a bit of new information.  _“Instead of keeping still and riding straight into the shore, use your lower half to get the board parallel to the beach. Skate the wave. Feel how it feels underneath you and do your own thing out there; you’re gonna rock the shit out of it. Remember: everyone falls off. Those waves are big-uns. If you get in trouble, show me your palm; if it’s cool, give me a thumb.”_

Richie parked his board on the cliff-like hill created by the night tide for a front-row seat. In hindsight, he should have remembered to bring a pair of shades, because the sun had cleared the water and was a burning ball that killed his retinas, but he watched anyway, squinting and occasionally using a hand or a forearm to block the light.

Eddie fought his way out to the far breakers and spent a decent stretch waiting for his moment. He wiped right away on the first run, and Richie held his breath, shielding his eyes and scanning the water, waiting for a head to emerge, or a hand. Those brown curls surfaced first, and a thumb popped up in the air, saying  “ _Everything is a-okay boss, I got this.”_ That set Richie's mind at ease. All his freaking out that morning was for naught, and Bev would fill his ear full of  _I-told-you-so-Tozier_  's when he got home. Eddie re-upped, trying the whole process again with the same result, and diligently paddled back out for another attempt.

On that third run, Eddie smartly crouched and used his core to turn the board before he popped up, and that seemed to be the clincher. He lasted, shaky but standing, arms out for balance and ankles doing work, swishing to and fro, skating on top of the wave like Richie told him to.

“FUCKIN’ A,” Richie shouted, smiling hard.

It was too bright to see clearly, and Eddie’s head was tiny so far away, but Richie caught the look of pure joy on the other man’s face. Those chubby cheeks high and creasing; the white blotch that was his toothy smile. He bailed off on purpose when he got closer to the shallows, crashing into the water back first. “I FUCKING DID IT!” His voice was a disbelieving shriek as he hopped up and ran, as fast as someone could in thigh-high water, lugging his board.

Richie cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “ARE YOU KIDDING? YOU FUCKING _KILLED IT!”_  He stood and speed walked towards the water, a realization dawning on him: Eddie wasn’t just running back to the shore; Eddie was running back  _to him_ (slow-mo _Baywatch_   style, down to the red bathing suit) and that knowledge made his stomach tumble over. Spreading his arms, Richie invited Eddie to run straight into them, and he did, tossing his board aside with a splash and climbing Richie like a tree.

Hooking his legs around Richie’s waist and an arm around Richie’s neck, Eddie leaned back and hung, dripping and shiny and stoked, with a million-watt smile. “Holy shit, I really can’t believe I did that,” he said, a little out of breath.

“Believe it, baby.” Richie settled his hands behind Eddie’s waist, lacing his fingers. “You’re an ass-kicker.”

Eddie flushed high on his cheeks, ducking his head. “Sorry.”

“Sorry? What for?”

“For jumping on you, y’know, after what you said before.” He apologized for it, yet stayed clung to Richie, giving no signals that he wanted to get down.

“Nah, you're okay. A dramatic run through the waves has to end with an embrace, or else it’s just blue ballin’.” As far as Richie was concerned the lesson was over, anyway. He’d needed to know if Eddie could handle himself out there on his own, and Eddie proved himself more than competent. Showing him that it was really okay, Richie gathered Eddie up behind his neck and kissed him, less urgent than the first time but deeper, and a low, dick-pulsing whimper slipped out of Eddie’s throat. They were finally free to do whatever they wanted to, and Richie had two bright ideas: going out for breakfast  _or_   a lengthy make out session that led to a game of high school level sword fighting and hide the salami, preferably in the Jeep. Or one of those things and then the other. Or both at the same time. 

_Forget Netflix and chill, we'll invent the drive-thru and park._

Breaking their kiss, Eddie widened his big eyes and bit his bottom lip. “Oh shit, my board is gonna float away.”

“On top of it,” Richie said, tipping to the side to show Eddie that he had his foot planted on it, “literally on top of it.”

Eddie relaxed, smiling a sweet smile and wrapping his legs a little tighter around Richie’s waist. “Do you want me to go back out and do that again?” He moved a hand up to play with the hair at the nape of Richie’s neck.

Richie squirmed a little under the soft touch. He cocked his head and scrunched up an eye. “If you really want to, you can, but you’re officially graduated from surfing school with honors. Top of your class. Valedictorian.”

“Really?” He loosened his hold and slipped off Richie, plunking into the shallow water.

“Really.”

Voices carried from the parking lot down the path that led to the beach, and both men craned their necks to see who they belonged to. A gaggle of teenage surfers were headed their way, all florescent trunks and graffitied boards and stupid haircuts.

“Yeah, I’m not going back out while they’re here,” Eddie said, his nose crumpling. He used his fingers to shake some water out of his hair, fluffing it. “Do you wanna go get breakfast with me? I’m starving.”

“Hey, no fair. I was gonna ask you.” Richie bent to pick up the surfboard beneath his foot and handed it over.

“Too slow.” He batted his eyelashes with a grin and sauntered away, up the sand to the spot where his sweater sat unattended next to Richie's hoodie and half-empty coffee. Dropping his board, he put his hands on his hips, impatient. "Well, do you wanna?"

"Yeah; love to." Richie grabbed his own board and followed. "You have a spot in mind?”

“Anywhere that thinks flip-flops and wet trunks are acceptable dining attire?” Eddie shook out his creamy cable-knit sweater to get the sand off, but it proved to be a lost cause. He pulled it over his head anyway. “I used to really hate being covered in sand and I’m starting to not mind it that much.”

“Ah, another acquired taste,” Richie said, setting his board down to give his hoodie the same beat-clean treatment. He slipped it on. “Give it a little time, you’ll be snorting sea water on purpose and loving it. Living your best life.”

Eddie pinched up his face and hefted his board under his arm. “Okay, just thinking about that makes me want to gag; cut it out.”

“The cold hard truth makes Eds want to ralph, noted.” Richie picked up his board and his cold coffee trash. He started walking away, calling over his shoulder, “I’ll try not to gush over how great of a surfer you are at breakfast, so you won’t run off to yak.” He heard Eddie giggling behind him and grinned, feeling lighter than he had when he woke up. The morning was already working out better than his imagined ideal, and it was barely seven o’clock. Richie stepped in half-time deliberately, letting Eddie catch up with him so they were side by side as they made their way to the parking lot. He wasn't exactly sure what the breakfast date would have in store for them, but he couldn't wait to find out.


	11. natural highs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A breakfast date.

Eddie kept pace with Richie’s gait on the path back to the parking lot. He clutched his board under his arm like it belonged there and held his head high. It was rare that he felt so accomplished and at peace with his surroundings. His body moved with a graceful ease that hadn’t been present when he’d arrived all alone in the dark.  _‘Fake it ‘til you make it’_   worked, who knew?

In the days leading up to their last lesson, Eddie’s fears tried to take control of his mind. On Tuesday night, he’d stayed up late and searched online for wipe-out videos, scaring himself silly and losing sleep in the process. The rest of the work week was spent internalizing everything. He avoided texts, chewed the inside corners of his lips while he graded finals, and ground his teeth involuntarily during staff meetings. But throughout the spiral, he managed to catch himself red handed. He unclenched and forced his mind to turn away from his doubts each time they crept in—the way his therapist had taught him to.

 _“Acquiring confidence,”_   she’d said on more than one occasion,  _“can be as simple as ignoring the inner voice that_   _tries to make you feel incapable. Tell it to shut up. And then tell it to shut up again. And again. As many times as you need to.”_

Eddie’d told that voice to shut up approximately one hundred forty-seven times since his alarm blared at five on the dot, but he kept doing it again and again. And again. It’d been well-practiced, because he’d found himself ignoring that same voice an awful lot since he first met Richie, but as he walked away from the beach in the wake of his surfing success, the voice was peacefully silent without having to be scolded.

The relief from that burden was all-encompassing and came with a clarity that felt like a gift. Eddie savored each drop of what the experience offered him, taking notes for later, and nothing for granted. He felt the gentle heat of the rising sun caressing his body from behind. The remnants of the multiple adrenaline highs he’d earned still buzzed their way through his limbs and tingled his fingertips; natural rushes which were rewards not only for his boldness out in the water, but for the chances he’d taken with Richie.

Richie himself was the most precious thing Eddie had to appreciate, a man who was as supportive as he was tall and lanky. Beautiful to behold, even when he looked like a scruffy mess who hadn’t slept a wink and dressed from the floor of his closet. That morning he’d brought with him an honest vulnerability that Eddie hadn’t expected to see this soon—if at all—from someone with the capacity to be so irreverent. They walked side-by-side in companionable silence, despite the fact that they collectively stood on the precipice of a fledgling romance and were headed towards what was (maybe) their first date.

Eddie stopped walking where the edge of the sandy path spilled onto the blacktop and turned back for one last look at the water. The waves weren’t so scary from a distance. They lapped against the sand politely, and for the first time, their ebb and flow felt like an invitation for Eddie to come back.         

“Hey, I thought you said you were hungry.” Richie’s voice called out from somewhere behind him. “Unless you’re dreaming of eating some raw hermit crabs, we need to go this way.”

Breaking out of his reverie, Eddie dropped his chin and smiled at the ground. He said a silent goodbye to the sea and walked the rest of the way to Richie’s car.

The tiny trunk was ajar, and Richie was bent in half, one arm searching around inside of it, hopefully trying to find a pair of shoes to wear to breakfast. “Where...the fuck... are these stupid...” A gift from the mounting humidity, frizzy flyaway hairs danced around his bun as he bobbed. His board was leaned sideways against the back tire.

“Whatcha lookin’ for?” Eddie asked innocently, unable to help himself. He placed the tail of his board on the ground and hugged around it with one arm, striking a pose with his left knee turned out. “A hairbrush?”

“Oh, you little shithe—” Richie lifted his head up and stopped short when he saw Eddie’s posture. His mouth gaped and shut several times like he was a carp on a dock. “Look, we’re not going to make it out of the parking lot if you keep doing shit like that.” He grinned as he abruptly took hold of Eddie’s board and set it down, propping it against his own. “Uh, let’s go eat at the uh,” he said, shaking his head, adorably thrown off but obviously set on regaining his composure, “the Skylark? It’s the only place that’s probably open this early, but it’s a cool spot. The inside is like a retro airport.”

“ ‘Kay. I’ll follow you, I guess? I don’t know the area that—”

“Driving separately makes as much sense as a screen door on a submarine, Eds.” Richie reached into his trunk again and pulled out a pair of sunglasses. “C’mon, I’ll drive you back here to get your car when we’re done.” He tipped his chin towards the roof. “Just gotta undress her so both our boards will fit.” Pursing his lips, he waggled his head while he put the shades on: those pink aviators that Eddie hadn’t seen since their early lessons. “Who’s gonna need a hairbrush then? Hmmn?”

“You’re gonna take the top down?” Eddie asked, taking great pains not to sound like a kid who just found out he was going to Disney World, but he knew the naked excitement was probably plastered all over his face. He’d never ridden in a convertible before. “Okay, lemme just—” He pointed at his car. “Just uh, get my phone and sandals and stuff.”

“Jeez.” With a shit-eating grin, Richie adjusted his glasses. “Don’t pee your pants over it, kid.”

“Yeah, I betyou’d like that,” Eddie shot back accusingly.

“Get your stuff, kink-shamer,” he exclaimed, still highly amused. “Do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do-inski.”

Eddie collected his belongings and then loitered behind the Jeep ogling while Richie spent a good five minutes muscling and folding the soft top down. When the task was complete, he propped their boards up in the back, finagling them just so and claiming them secure, but after he stepped onto the asphalt, something—either gravity or the ocean breeze or fate—made Eddie’s cool, sea-green one shift over on its own and kiss the deck of his deep-purple one. 

“Lookit how cute that shit is,” Richie said, hopping awkwardly and holding onto the spare tire while he jammed his feet into a pair of slip on vans. “Even our boards like each other.” He wore a gigantic smile and his eyes were hidden, but his voice was so sappy they had to be sparkling.

Folding his arms over his chest and walking backwards, Eddie inched his way towards the passenger door. “It probably happened because you’re leaning on the back end and shaking the whole thing,” he said, only because his first instinct was to be contrary, but he couldn’t help grinning because Richie was right, it was definitely cute. Everything about the entire morning had been cute. It felt like Eddie’d dreamed it all, like he was still dreaming it. As he climbed into the passenger side, he got another surprise that could only be described as cute: Richie must’ve vacuumed the floor of his car. 

 _Not car; his Jeep,_ Eddie thought, internally correcting himself as he marveled silently down at his own feet and the clean, empty space surrounding them. He wondered if Richie’d tidied up just for the hell of it or to impress him. Maybe he’d planned all along for them to end up riding with the top down. The idea of it made Eddie’s belly do a somersault.

“Hey, did you not bring shades with you?” Without waiting for an answer, Richie leaned into the open door in front of Eddie’s legs and popped the glove box. He pulled out a pair of black sunglasses with neon orange arms and wiped the lenses on the bottom hem of his hoodie. “So the wind won’t dry out your pretty lil eyeballs,” he said sweetly, holding the clean glasses out for Eddie to grab. “Might clash with your outfit, but you—"

Impulsively, Eddie gripped onto the front of Richie’s hoodie instead, pulling him closer, and Richie smiled, catching the drift.

He swooped lower and dipped further into the Jeep, capturing Eddie’s lips in a gentle kiss. His free hand found its way to the side of Eddie’s neck, rough thumb pad skidding across his throat, and in the tenderness of that touch, Eddie saw himself telling his appetite to fuck off. The hunger in his gut didn’t hold a candle to the thirst his soul had endured for two months. But his disloyal stomach chose that moment to rumble out a lengthy protest that made Richie’s tongue stop moving.

Richie chuckled against Eddie’s lips and pecked him one more time before pulling away. He unfolded the glasses and slipped them over Eddie’s face. “Nah, they don’t clash,” he corrected himself while he brushed Eddie’s damp curls away from his forehead. “You look mahvelous, dahling.”

Eddie wanted to nuzzle up against that hand like a cat but he froze under the intimate, and frankly,  _coupley_  way that Richie groomed him, getting caught up staring at the ridge of Richie’s jaw. He didn’t have control over what came out of his mouth, thinking out loud: “Why the fuck are you single?”

“Who says I  _am,”_   Richie said, grinning wolfishly and taking his hand back. “You never asked.” He laughed sharply at the look of shock that crossed Eddie’s face. “You’re so cute, kid. I’m single. Very. The why of it all is a long story, though. Boring.”

Richie ran his hand in an arc down from Eddie’s arm to his knee, clearing him from the path of the door. “You all in? Train’s leaving.” He shut it and motored around the back of the Jeep, leaving Eddie sitting there a little spellbound. He adjusted his side mirror before hopping into the driver’s seat and slamming the door behind him. “You care if I smoke?” he asked, already reaching into the center console for the pack and lighter.

“Oh uh, no. Go ahead.” Eddie glanced up at the mostly clear sky above them while he buckled his seatbelt. “We’re basically outside. Besides, it’s your funeral, anyway.”

“Compassionate,” Richie mumbled around the cigarette in his mouth, lighting it up as he turned the key. He took a puff and pulled his smoking hand away from his lips to hang it down over the door, asking, “Why are  _you_   single?” through an exhale of smoke.

It was an obvious joke, just a clapback, but it stung Eddie a little. “Who says I  _am,”_   he parroted, using a voice similar to the one Pee Wee Herman would’ve used to say  _“I know you are, but what am I?”_  But Eddie  _was_   single. He was single because he was uptight. He was single because at that point in his life, he was so clueless when it came to romantic intimacy that it may as well have been a foreign language to him. He was single because in the past his anxiety had severely inhibited his ability to live freely, and some guys saw that as a huge turnoff.

Before Eddie could say anything else, Richie turned up the radio knob to nine and a half and peeled out of the lot. The music blasting out of the speakers took away the option for small talk, as did the wind whipping into their faces. Eddie felt like he’d been strapped into a gigantic roller-skate. Riding relatively slowly down side-streets wasn’t much of a thrill—at least not the one that he thought it would be. They didn’t have to get on any highways, because the restaurant was in the small business district only a few minutes away from the beach.

Richie pulled front-end first and crooked into a metered parking space. He shut off the engine and the music cut out abruptly. “End of the line.”

To Eddie’s right, the diner sat there, huge and out of place among the delis and surf shops on the main street. It was metallic and bright and orange, with hammered aluminum adorning the outside and florescent signs in the windows. He stepped out of the Jeep and combed his fingers through the lost cause that was his hair (nearly dry, and undoubtedly a wreck, like Richie’d promised) while he juggled his phone and wallet in the other hand.

“You have an aversion to sitting outside?” Richie pointed to the second floor, at an outdoor seating area lined with flower boxes and a thick and shiny tubular railing. “I feel like leaving the boards alone out here is risky. Sitting ducks.”

“Sure, but it’s pretty empty up there,” Eddie said as he walked up to the door. He pulled it open and leaned his back against the cool glass, politely holding it for Richie to pass through. “Do you think it’s even open at this hour?”

“Nope. But my negotiation skills are top shelf,” Richie said confidently. He used one long arm to lean over Eddie, placing a wide palm beside his head to take the door off his hands. “Holdin’ the door for me,” he marveled as he bent his elbow to dip further into Eddie’s space, bringing his scent with him. Smoke and salt and pears. “After you, smooth operator.”

Eddie smiled and pushed himself up from leaning. He wanted to kiss Richie again, decently long, but walking out of the vestibule of a diner at seven in the morning with a visible erection wasn’t exactly on his bucket list. Compromising with his own desire, he hip-checked Richie before entering the inside door.

The hostess was a bored looking blonde girl who couldn’t have been more than nineteen. She was dressed impeccably in an evening dress and heels—too fancy for the neighborhood or the hour. When she heard the bells jingling to announce their entrance, she glanced up from her phone without much interest, but did a double-take when she saw Richie and stood up straight.  

Richie ducked a bit to nudge Eddie’s shoulder with his own before sauntering ahead to the podium and leaning against it chest first, arching his back so his ass stuck out. “Good morrow, er, Molly,” he chirped, reading her name tag in an overdone Irish accent. “Might we trouble ye fer a seat on your foine outdoor patio? I weren’t sure if ye opened it until aft’ the sun dipped below the sea.”

Molly just blinked at him with slightly parted lips, and Eddie watched her first-glance attraction morph into bewilderment.

In a flash, Richie became Richie again, leaning his chin on his balled fist and adding sheepishly: “Only askin’ ‘cause our boards are out there all by their lonesome and I wanna keep an eye on ‘em.” His face went stern. “Lotta hooligans around these parts, y'know?”

 _Top shelf negotiation skills,_   Eddie thought as he helped himself to a hefty dollop of the hand sanitizer on the podium, smiling to himself.  _First, he confuses you with absurdity, then he_   _does some_   _dopey cute shit. If I worked here, I would tell him to fuck off, and then let him sit wherever he wanted._

“Um. I don't know if I'm allowed to." The girl bit her lower lip nervously and appeared to be considering her options as she peered behind herself at the nearly empty first floor of the diner. She sighed with a half-shrug. “I guess I can seat you up there, but don’t take it out on your server’s tip if they forget about you. We usually only open the balcony after lunch.”

“We're low maintenance.” Eddie stepped closer to Richie with a nod. “And we can always hunt them down, if we need a refill or something.” Overcome by cheekiness, maybe absorbing some of Richie’s, he draped an arm across Richie’s lower back, leaning on him. Claiming him. Telling Molly exactly what they were doing there that morning without using words.                                                                                                                          

Molly’s eyes darted back and forth between their faces, giving them one last appraising look. She smiled and tucked her hair behind her ear while collecting menus, wrapped silverware, and paper place mats out of her station—two of each. “Okay. Follow me.”

Richie pushed away from the podium gently, effectively nudging Eddie off of himself. He turned around, and his cheeks were nearly as pink as his glasses. “Who gave you the right to be so cute?”

Eddie didn’t answer. He grinned and followed the path their hostess forged.

She led them through the 1970's style orange and brown upholstered main room, past the empty swivel seats at the counter towards the dim back-end. They climbed the staircase alongside the swinging doors of the noisy kitchen and entered a top level much fancier than the downstairs portion: a sea of full-size dining tables rather than booths. They had to walk through the entire length of the room to get to the sliding doors of the outside patio. It was definitely a trek, so Eddie understood her apprehension about putting them up there. If their server covered many customers on the main floor, it would require a lot of extra effort not only waiting on them but remembering to come back.

The outdoor seating area smelled like fresh flowers mixed with ocean air, and sun rose on the opposite side of the building, leaving the shady balcony chilly. Dewy residue beaded up on the pleather seat-tops of the booths. They sat down opposite one another in the booth parallel to the door.

Richie seemed to be fresh out of wisecracks. He was unnaturally quiet, half-smiling and nodding his thanks while Molly set out their place settings and handed them menus. She ducked inside briefly and came back to bring them water from the upstairs drink service bar.

When they were finally alone, Richie chugged from his glass, maybe to avoid talking. The nervousness that Eddie had felt coming off of him in waves earlier that morning was back full-force. The same aura of tension that had inspired Eddie to kiss him, but now they weren’t sitting close together on the amber-lit beach with the ocean crashing behind. They sat in a rigid booth with a hard-edged table separating them, both of their eyes obscured by sunglasses. Intermittent traffic noises from below were the only things they had to listen to, flanked by silence that needed filling.

They had talked a lot via text since exchanging numbers, but it was mostly surfacey. Work complaints and photos of interesting things they were eating and  _‘what are you watching tonight’_ and plenty of light back and forth banter, similar to what went on in their lessons, but they both shied away from deeper conversation. Because of Stan’s drunken grilling session at his birthday party, Eddie knew that Richie came out three years ago, but had he ever been in a relationship with a man? Not that it mattered, but there was a hefty list of basic facts that Eddie wanted to know. He didn’t have any idea how Richie was raised, or what his greatest fears were, or the length of his longest relationship.

“So, Eds.” Richie broke the silence. He opened the sticky pages of his menu and asked casually: “Is this a first date?” with his face pointed down into it.

An interesting question to get started, because Eddie wondered the same thing. He associated first dates with awkward greetings in dimly lit barrooms and free-flowing anxiety. A full-tilt buzz of terror that he pushed as low as it went while he blathered out canned responses to a smiley dude who usually looked nothing like his profile picture. Zero carb cocktails accompanied by oddly intrusive questions from a near stranger. How hypocritical of him: the sort of questions that he dreaded were the same ones he wanted to shoot rapid fire at Richie.

Eddie peeled open his own menu. “It doesn’t feel like one,” he said, and it didn’t. Despite a lack of exact facts that he could tick off one-by-one on his fingers, he felt like he really knew Richie already—maybe not every little important detail, but enough that there was nothing awkward about sitting there alone with him. Enough that Eddie trusted him. “If you want it to feel like a first date, ask me how much rent I pay, or if I’ve ever been with a woman.”

“Dudes actually ask you stuff like that the first time you hang out?”

“Gay first dates are pretty wild,” Eddie said easily. “Like job interviews soaked in alcohol, kinda.”

Richie laughed at that and then smoothed his hand over the front of his hair. “I’m only asking because—” The tops of his cheek wrinkled. He might have been clenching his eyes shut behind those shiny pink lenses. “Does it feel weird? Y’know, because I made a pretty decent chunk of change off you, and now we’re—”

“Oh, no. You didn’t.”

“My bank account begs to differ.”

“No, I meant that I didn’t pay for most of it.”

“Why not?” One side of Richie’s mouth curled up. “Do you have a secret sugar daddy or something?”

“No, dipshit,” Eddie laughed, shaking his head. “My insurance covered like seventy-five percent of the cost, because—” He stopped, face falling as the truth caught in his throat.

 _“ Because, ”_   Richie drawled expectantly with a little smile. He pushed his sunglasses up onto the top of his head to reveal warm eyes that held no judgment in them, only honest curiosity.

“Because.” Eddie tensed, pausing to suck in a deep breath. He took his own sunglasses off and folded them, placing them on the table, but it didn’t matter, because he couldn’t look up. “Because my therapist recommended that I take the lessons as part of my therapy, so it was covered,” he blurted to the shiny laminate surface of Richie’s menu, telling the truth before he thought better of it. He moved his gaze up slowly, from the advertisement graphics on the edges of Richie’s paper placemat to the long, shiny zipper of his hoodie, to the softened features of his scruffy face.

Richie didn’t look shocked or put off, or even surprised. “Surfing for mental health. I dig it.” He took a little sip of his water before asking: “Did it help?”

“Yeah,” Eddie said softly, his chest swelling with affection for this man. The only probable ending to the long story behind Richie’s singledom was a colorful description of the supreme stupidity of everyone he’d ever dated, Eddie had no doubts about that. For the second time that morning he wished that he’d known Richie longer. “It helped a lot.” He closed his menu. “ _You_   helped a lot,” he added, keeping the chain of honesty going, his heart thumping faster from his own admission. “I don’t think I could have done it without you.”

Richie flashed him a bashful smile. “I’m not one to dispute an ego boost like that, but you’re not giving yourself enough credit. You did all the work, kid. Happy to help, though.” He focused back on his menu and pressed on, changing the subject quickly. “Are you a savory or a sweet breakfast person, Spaghetti? Inquiring minds want to know.”

“Savory. I’m getting a mushroom and swiss omelet with rye toast.”

“A man who knows what he likes. Good; good deal. Me, I could go either way, or both ways. But maybe that’s just the way I am about everything, yeah?” He raised his eyes to Eddie’s and winked. “I think I want that sandwich where the bread is French toast but there’s deli meat inside. You know what I mean?”

“Um, a Monte Cristo?”

“Yeah! That’s it.” He shut the menu and tapped his finger in the air. “You’re a smart cookie, too.”

“Sure,” Eddie said, rolling his eyes but smiling like a goof. “I’m a genius because I know the name of a diner sandwich.”

The door that led inside the restaurant opened, and the hostess that seated them walked up to their table. She sighed as she took a notepad out of the apron she hadn’t been wearing when they first saw her. “Hi. I’m Molly. I’ll be your sever, apparently, since I wasn’t supposed to seat anyone up here, and now you’re  _my problem.”_

Eddie cringed. “I’m so sorry.”

“We’re easy-peasy; don’t worry,” Richie said. He grinned and bit his lower lip. “It’s not too early to order a whole rotisserie chicken, right?”

When Molly looked at Richie like he’d just asked her the square root of infinity, Eddie snickered. “Don’t pay any attention to him; he’s like, allergic to being serious,” he said. “Just bring him a Monte Cristo.”

“He ordered for me.” Richie leaned his elbow on the table to prop his cheek on his hand and batted his eyelashes. “Isn’t that the cutest shit? Oh uh, and he wants…a mushroom omelet with swiss?”

Eddie nodded. “With rye toast.”

“Ooh-ooh.” Richie sat up straight, his face lighting up. “And can we have two house iced coffees with an ass load of whipped cream on top?”

Molly grinned and put a hand on her hip. “Exactly how much whipped cream is that?”

Richie opened his mouth to answer, but Eddie struck first, speaking quickly: “I don’t want any whipped cream on mine.”

“Party pooper. Fine; put all of his on mine. You know what? Just give me half a cup of iced coffee and fill up the rest with whipped cream.”

“Wow. I’m on a breakfast date with an actual six-year-old.”

“You heard that, Molly? He said it’s a date.”

Molly laughed under her breath while she scribbled on the pad. “I’m bringing you guys two black iced coffees with do-it-yourself half and half, and a can of whip on the side. Sound good?”

“Sounds perfect,” Richie said, his eyes on Eddie.

“Thank you, Molly.”

Their hostess-turned-waitress took their menus and left them for the second time.

Richie kept up his staring, and Eddie felt himself shrinking under the attention. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“ ‘Cause you ordered my food for me,” he said, breathy and soft, his gaze trailing from Eddie’s face to his neck. “Like something out of the etiquette book on how to be a suave little fucker.”

 _Suave._   Eddie smirked at that word. No one had ever described him as anything even resembling it. “You’re making it into a thing. I only did it to save the poor girl from your unfunny jokes,” he said truthfully, but Richie’s eyes all over him sent the flesh on his midsection squirming.

“And what’s your excuse for holding the door for me?”

“I’m a polite person?”

“Bullshit.” Richie hopped up suddenly and backed away from their table, still staring. “I’ll be right back; I gotta see a man about a horse.”

“You have to what a who?”

“Piss. Intensely. But you probably did it in the ocean, that’s why you don’t have the same problem.”

“You asshole. I did  _not_ —”

“Oh, puh-lease.” Richie pulled open the door and stepped through it but let his head linger on the balcony. “Bee-Ar-Bee,” he said brightly, but it came out a smidge forced, “try not to miss me too much.”

And then Eddie was alone, shaking his head at himself for being naturally combative, and at Richie, who saw right through him, anyway. Yes, of course he had pissed in the ocean. The water was freezing cold, and he’d chugged a large coffee before Richie arrived, so he really didn’t have a choice.

He grabbed for his phone and dashed off a couple stream of consciousness texts to Stan, getting a couple burning questions off his chest. Were they headed somewhere afterwards to attack each other, even though Eddie desperately needed to shower first? Would the conversation turn awkward when and if they veered towards typical,  _getting-to-know-you_   first-date questions? Should he be the one to broach those kind of topics, or did it make more sense to let the conversation flow organically?

Several minutes passed. He blew Stan up, sending seven novel-length messages, but his fingers froze when he heard the door open.

Molly came back before Richie did, hefting a wide circular tray.

“That was really fast.”

“The line cooks have nothing better to do at this hour.” She placed the tray on a foldout stand and transferred their plates of food and glasses onto the table while eyeing Eddie sidelong. After Eddie thanked her, she said: “Kinda early in the morning for a first date.”

Taken aback by the statement, Eddie stammered a bit before he could get out a sentence. “Oh, uh. We’re um; it’s—” He huffed out a grumbly sigh. “Is it that obvious that this is our first date?”

“Yeah. And he’s like, over-the-moon for you. It’s really cute.”

Marinating in her observation, Eddie smiled. “You think so?”

“Yep.” Molly placed the last of their items on the table and tucked the tray under her arm. “I thought this shift would be mind-numbingly boring, but I’m soft now. So, thanks.”

Eddie expected that they’d end up needing to apologize for the all their chaotic inconvenience via a huge tip, and there she was, living vicariously.

“Just thought you should know, though, he went outside,” she added, pointing at the ledge and hooking her finger down.

“He did?” Eddie didn’t even attempt to seem chill about it, he popped up onto his knees and scooted towards the railing to get a view. Richie was down there on the sidewalk, smoking a cigarette and pacing in front of the diner with his phone up to his ear. The shades were back over his eyes and it looked like he’d taken some time fixing his hair in the bathroom: it was smoothed back; the bun rewound and coiled tighter.

Eddie concentrated hard, trying to hear what Richie said while he fidgeted back and forth, but his words cut in and out every time he faced the street.

“Fuck; I dunno, Red… Can’t be sure if he even wa… Hard to read.”

_What the fuck does that mean? Am I what’s hard to read? Fuck._

“Listen, I gotta… ‘na think I ditched him… Later. Much, Right? Cool.” Richie hung up the call and tucked his phone into the pocket of his hoodie. He stubbed his cigarette butt into the standing ashtray and disappeared inside the entrance.

Eddie scrambled backwards to sit properly in the booth, hoping that when Richie made it back to the balcony that the evidence he’d been spying wasn’t written all over his face. He noticed belatedly that Molly was already gone and picked up his phone, fiddling with it, checking to see if Stan had answered him and attempting to appear unaffected, though the pounding pulse in his ears rivaled the rush he’d gotten from catching a wave. He hoped he wasn’t visibly sweating. The door opened again, but he didn’t look up from his texts.

“Sorry,” Richie said. “Got lost.” He slid into the booth across from Eddie and unraveled the paper ring from around his napkin-wrapped bundle of utensils. “You already texting someone your ‘ _help, 911, abort date’_   messages? We haven’t even eaten a bite yet.”

“No.” Setting his phone down as calmly as he could with his mind racing, Eddie licked at his bottom lip.  _Hard to read_   ran circles in his head like a model train, but he took one look at Richie and smiled involuntarily. “Did you spend the past fifteen minutes fixing your hair?” he asked, mocking. If his tendency towards snarkiness was what made him  _hard to read,_   all hope got tossed over the side of the balcony.

But Richie smiled back and ducked his head shyly. “Were you clockin’ me, Stickler?” After he asked it, he slapped a hand to the side of his face, knocking his sunglasses crooked. “Shit, man. Déjà vu. Creepy.”

Eddie tipped his head to the side. He pushed the ring off his own napkin and busied himself with lightening up his coffee. “Care to elaborate?”

“You were clockin’ me the minute I met you.”

“I was  _clockin’_   you?” Eddie asked incredulously. “You were thirty-five minutes late for your  _job_.”

“He remembers exactly how many minutes I was late,” Richie said, in the same tone he’d used to coo over Eddie ordering his breakfast.

“Oh, shut up,” Eddie said, chuckling and shaking a couple sugar packets. “There you go again, trying to make it into some sentimental, cute shit. I only remember because I was wicked pissed at you. I was about to leave when you pulled up.”

“It was cute that you were wicked pissed, and that you came at me like an attack chihuahua.” Richie picked up half of his Monte Cristo with both hands. “That’s when I decided I liked you.”

Eddie cracked two of the little cups of half and half and poured them into his cup. “Professional right out of the gate.”

“Watch it.” He took a gigantic bite that decimated almost half the sandwich and slurred, “sore subject,” with his mouth full.

“Oh, yeah.” Eddie shook his head while he stirred the coffee with his butter knife. “Sorry.”

Richie waved the apology off, still chewing. After he swallowed, he asked: “When did you decide you liked  _me_  ?”

Eddie opened his mouth and then closed it. He wiped his knife off on his napkin. “When you got sand in your eye,” he said softly. That boisterous, overly friendly and confident goof-ball laid out flat on his board, lamenting his poor choices and in need of assistance. Eddie was sold in that moment.

“Liar,” Richie scoffed through another mouthful. “You liked me when you shook my hand. Vibes came shooting right up my arm.”

Rolling his eyes, Eddie stalled, methodically tearing the edge of his straw wrapper. After a beat he allowed Richie the satisfaction. “ _When did I like you_   and  _when was I attracted to you_   aren’t the same question.”

“I fuckin’ knew it,” Richie whispered. He set his sandwich down and took off his shades, dropping them onto the table with a flourish. The look he threw Eddie was equal parts appreciative and accusatory. “And then you wore little shorty shorts to the next lesson all,  _‘la-di-dah, I didn’t spend time thinking about my outfit.’”_

“Fuck.” Richie’s critique of his past clothing selections made Eddie realize something. “I forgot to wear my pukka shells this morning,” he said sadly. He’d meant to put them on, but he’d woken up on hardly any sleep with too much weighing on his mind and left them on his night table. Richie had been quick to put himself down for buying the necklace, labeling it a cliché gift, so Eddie wanted to show how much he liked them, yet missed the opportunity. Maybe that was part of the  _hard to read_   comment, too.

Half of Richie’s Monte Cristo was already gone. He winced at the mention of the shells. “That’s okay, kid. You don’t have to wear them just to—”

“No Richie, I really wanted to wear them, but I forgot.”

“Next time, then,” Richie said. He jimmied his head side to side and perused the rolling clouds above them. “A while back, I was promised that we’d go surfing sometime just for fun.”

“We will. I liked watching you surf.”

Their organic conversation bobbed in the shallow end. They stuck to what was tactile. Eddie was pretty particular about how he enjoyed his diner breakfasts, and Richie offered lighthearted critique. Rye toast and raspberry jam? Abhorrent. Ketchup on eggs? Acceptable.

Richie inhaled almost all of his sandwich in record time. Eddie teased him for his speed, and for the excessive amount of sugar he dumped into his iced coffee. He topped it off with the coveted whipped cream and acted like he was going to spray some of it into his mouth directly from the can, but when Eddie aimed one mildly disapproving look his way, he reconsidered, setting it down and sliding it away from himself, using his long arm and fingers to tap it beyond easy reach, as if he knew he couldn’t be trusted with it too close to him.

They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes. The sidewalk below the balcony came to life as the morning grew longer, drawing Richie’s attention to their unattended boards. While banging the end of his straw on the table to rip the paper, he asked: “Where do you keep your board, anyway?”

“Uh, I keep it on the floor in my living room?” An embarrassing admission. He’d bought the board impulsively without considering the issue of storage. His apartment was on the small side; a true studio if not for the fact his bedroom had walls. “It takes up almost the entire room,” he said lamely, “super inconvenient.” Though if he weren’t faced with that inconvenience every day since he brought the thing home, he wouldn’t have practiced as much.

“Seriously?” Richie played with the crusts of his sandwich. He was nearly finished with everything, but Eddie still had half an omelet and a mountain of home fries left. “Maybe this is weird or overstepping or whatever, but you can keep it in my garage if you want to.”

“You have a garage?” The offer might have been a tad forward, but Eddie didn’t find it overtly strange. He considered taking Richie up on it, despite a few lingering reservations. His only other option was to rent a storage unit and he’d stalled on that, unable to commit himself to the added expense. 

“Yeah. We pay extra for it. It was supposed to be for the Jeep but it’s all full of my surfing stuff, plus Bev’s sewing machine and samples.”

“What kind of samples?”

“Clothing samples. Receptionist by day; designer by night. Hopefully, someday, successful as fuck.”

“Cool. Oh, right, yeah.” The mention of Beverly sparked Eddie’s memory of an  _oh-by-the-way-check-this-shit-out_   text that Stan had sent him earlier in the week. “Are you going with her to O’Neils tonight? I guess she loves karaoke.” 

“Waitaminute, she's what? She didn’t tell me she was going.” Richie’s eyebrows and lips tensed, his face slipping from relaxed to serious in an instant. “How do you know before me?”

Eddie shrugged, worried that he’d made a huge mistake. He sounded like the world’s most reluctant gossiping teenager when he rattled off the chain of communication. “Ben the karaoke guy told Mike who told Stan who told me.”

“Oh, of course, the karaoke guy. Fuck, she’s dead meat,” Richie said, eyes darkened and struggling under his furrowed brow. “Why wouldn’t she tell me that she was going there?” he asked, speaking to himself, not to Eddie, and a trifle indignant. "I just talked to her."

“Maybe...Uh,” Eddie began slowly, because he knew hardly anything about Richie and Bev’s friendship and felt like he needed to tread lightly. “Maybe,” he repeated, choosing his words carefully, “because you acted like you were her disapproving father when she was flirting with Ben last weekend?”

“No-no, she totally expects that from me. I just mean—” Richie stopped and exhaled a burst through his nose. “It really doesn’t matter. Never mind.” He bluntly dismissed the topic, but his eyebrows didn’t relax. He used the side of his finger to slide his coffee to the edge of the table and sipped from the straw until the mound of whip that floated in the center of the cup caved in and sank a few centimeters. Then he did something that made Eddie shift in his seat: after stirring the straw around the edges of the cup to coat it in cream, he lifted it, tipping his head back and depositing a glob of the white substance onto his tongue. Remnants of it streaked along the corners of his mouth and the fleshiest part of his lower lip.

Eddie knew that Richie wasn’t trying to be suggestive. His face was all far away and pensive. Besides that, the man didn’t have a coy bone in his body: he wouldn’t have been able to contain his loud commentary if he was working at being obscene. But it was plenty obscene to Eddie. Heaps obscene. He saw the briefest flash of himself pulling Richie by the hand into the bathroom and painting those lips with his own cream. “What the fuck are you doing right now?” he asked, voice coming out husky, dry as sawdust. He knew his face was probably the color of the raspberry preserves.

Richie brought his attention back to Eddie, his sloppy lips morphing into a little  _O_   of surprise, like he’d momentarily forgotten where he was. He chuckled when he took in the sight of Eddie’s pink cheeks and must have understood, because he cleaned his lips quickly, licking at one corner of his mouth and then the other. Whatever had plagued him about Beverly’s plans flew away as quickly as it had taken him over. “What a little pervert you are,” he hummed, “I was just minding my own business and enjoying my breakfast treat.”

“Yeah, well, sorry, I’m super gay and it looked like you were enjoying something else.”

“Hmmmmn, I wonder what,” Richie said, cupping his cheek with his thumb and forefinger splayed.

“It’s a mystery.” Eddie said dryly.

“World’s best kept secret,” Richie said. He licked his lips again but there was nothing there to clean off. “Do you think you’re going to the bar tonight?”

“I dunno if I am,” Eddie said, and he didn’t. Before he could contemplate committing to an evening out drinking, he required a shower and a nap. And after Richie’s whipped cream display, if they weren’t going to end up fooling around in a real capacity, he also needed to pencil in a wank. Richie asked him another question, but he didn’t fully hear it.

_I would go tonight, if you were going, but is that weird? Dawn lesson and breakfast, plus who knows where we’re heading after this. Do you even want to spend that much time with me in one day? I mean, you just offered to let me keep my surfboard in your garage, so obviously you don’t think we’re going to stop talking for a while. Unless you like those super awkward give-me-back-my-shit swaps that happen sometimes when things don’t work out. Which, I could see that. I could see you getting off on making light of an awkward situation. And maybe I kind of like that you’re like that. Maybe I definitely do._

“You in there, Eds?”

“Uh-huh. Sorry.”

“I asked you what you had planned after this.”

“Oh. It depends? I guess.”

“Depends on what?”

“It  _depends_ …” Eddie drawled, delaying his answer and grinning, “on…what… _you_   have planned?”

“Rad, ‘cause I’m a completely free agent until noon on Monday,” Richie said. “What did you think we’d do today?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Richie propped his elbows on the table and rested his chin on top of his hands. “Back in the day, y’know, when you were busy picking out shorty shorts and wondering for weeks if I liked you, what did you imagine we’d do as, like, an activity after we had a real date?” He got to the meat and potatoes behind his question and stared intently again, patiently, warm eyes roving around in Eddie’s hair.

_What did I think we’d do? Is that a fucking trick question?  Maybe I should tell you a little story about a dream I had. Not the first dream you starred in, either. I did something I never had the balls to do before and maybe something that I don’t actually have the balls to do in real life. The first wet dream I’ve had in probably seven years, Richie._

The words were on the tip of Eddie’s tongue, and he wasn’t sure if he really wanted to say them out loud in a restaurant, even though they were outside on the dead silent and empty patio. He had imagined this exact scenario a couple times, late at night when he was in bed all alone: asking for what he wanted directly and the way that Richie would respond. In those fantasies, wherever they were, it was much less bright, and they certainly weren’t sitting in a booth or wearing any clothes. He swallowed hard before he opened his mouth, and while he felt inclined to whisper, his voice came out strong. “I thought I’d sit on your face,” he said. An impossibly thirsty, horny admission, but it wasn’t  _hard to read,_   now was it?

Richie clapped a hand against his chest and his mouth fell open, eyes doing some very interesting acrobatic work as they crinkled and blinked. When he was finally able to speak, a soft, demure southern accent tumbled past his lips. “Mah word, Edward; I am simply a-fluttah. Ah say, positively  _titillated_.”

Smirking, Eddie took a long sip of his coffee. That was the exact reaction he hoped for: Richie’s turn to squirm in his seat.

Richie waved his hand palm down in a circle over their plates. “So are we getting this wrapped up, or?”

“Give me a chance to finish, first. I’m a slow eater.” Eddie used his fork to cut another bite out of his omelet. “You don’t even have anything to wrap up, anyhow.” He heard but didn’t see Richie’s mouth gaping again. Smiling down at his plate, Eddie took a bite and glanced up while he chewed. The eggs had gone cold and rubbery and it ruined his attempt to play smooth. It took a bit of effort not to gag when he swallowed them almost whole.

Richie continued staring at Eddie, blinking, with an expression on his face that rated somewhere between pain and admiration. He shook his head quickly, vibrating his lips so they made a high, cartoonish noise, and the motion knocked the pained look off his face in favor of something more solemn. Playing idly with the edge of his placement, he asked innocently: “Do you wanna know what _I_   thought we’d do?”

Eddie set his fork down and sat up a bit straighter. He made a sweeping gesture with his hand and cocked his head, giving Richie the floor.

“Honestly?” Richie chuckled, flushing high on his cheeks. “I kinda figured it wouldn’t go beyond some clumsy handies in the Jeep to start out. Been a while for me, but if you—”

“Wait—look,” Eddie said, backtracking, “you asked me what I  _imagined_   we’d do, but I’m all sandy and covered in the ocean, so I wouldn’t—”

“Every snack you bring to the beach gets sand in it,” Richie said simply, “still perfectly edible.”

“Jesus,” Eddie snickered. “How long have you been waiting to say that line?”

“I dunno, like four weeks, probably.” Richie finished off the rest of his iced coffee with a hollow rattle of wind through the ice cubes. He used the straw to scoop some more of the lingering whip into his mouth, but did it carefully and cleanly this time, smiling at Eddie all the while. “You’re all talk then, is that what you’re trying to say?”

“No, I’m not all—” Eddie picked up his fork and played with the cold potatoes on his plate. “Why don’t we go back to your place and watch a movie or something. See what happens,” he offered vaguely, but he knew that going back to someone’s place after a date with the promise of  _‘or something,’_   was pretty universal. One of them would end up in the other’s lap, kissing, maybe grinding, exploring each other. Eddie could feel the warm weight of it already: Richie straddling him, kissing his neck, both of their trunks too tight for the expanse of flesh between them.

“We can definitely do that. Are you still eating that omelet? Your last bite didn’t look so tasty. Cold eggs make me wanna barf, too.”

Eddie pushed his plate away from himself and tossed his napkin on top of it. “I’m finished.”

“Did you decide if you wanna keep your board in my garage?”

“Yeah, okay, but how will I get it back?”

“Well, there’s these things called phones, see? And if you want to ask someone something all you have to do is—”

“Smart ass. I meant, like, if this doesn’t— If something happens—not that I think anything  _will,_   I just—” Eddie stopped, regretting going down the negative path, but he already had one foot in the pool. Plus, he needed to be realistic. Sometimes things started hopeful as hell and simply didn’t work out. One time he’d let a very new boyfriend borrow a limited-edition copy of a well-loved book, and two weeks later got ghosted. He never knew why it happened, just accepted it at face value and took the loss on the chin, but taking a loss on something as expensive as a surfboard couldn’t be justified. “I just don’t want it to be aw—”

“You can always call up Bev, since she’s gotten herself all mixed up with your crew,” Richie said with a sigh, obviously picking up on the gist of Eddie’s rambling worries. “She’s apparently spending every Saturday at your buddy's bar now, and she usually makes friends with everyone, so that makes her your friend, too. If anything; if you need to get it back and we don’t…” He trailed off, a sad little smirk on his face.

That was the last thing in the world Eddie wanted to see. Without thinking, he got up from his seat and slid into Richie’s side of the booth. The outside of his thigh rested comfortably against the cool material of Richie’s long trunks. “I’m sorry,” he said softly as he took Richie’s hand into both of his and cradled it. “I wasn’t trying to ru—"

“Don’t. You’re right.” Richie kept his eyes down. “I always do shit like this.” He wormed his fingers around inside the cage Eddie’s hands created and looped two of them around Eddie’s left thumb. “It was awkward for me to ask it. You ever have someone you just met ask you to help them move? And you’re just like ‘slow down there chief; I wouldn’t even ask my first cousin to help me move.’ Well, I’m both of those guys, depending on the day. And I hate it.”

Eddie laughed softly at the self-deprecating observation, and kneaded over Richie’s knuckles, trying to rub away the damage before it got too deep. “But we didn’t just meet, and  _you’re_   right: our friends are friends." He babbled, trying hard to sweeten the air he had soured. "It was nice of you to suggest it.  I’d honestly be grateful to get the thing out of my living room. You have no idea how many times I’ve tripped over it in the middle of the night.”

“I’d be saving your poor toesies from a bunch of stubbings, then, huh?” Richie asked lightly, his eyes still down.

“Yep,” Eddie replied, just as light. “Look at me?”

Richie looked, peeking at Eddie from underneath his eyelashes without turning his head. His face was painted impossibly cute and apologetic; a nervous kid who got caught doing something ill-advised and was hiding from his lumps.

Eddie let go of Richie’s hand and crawled the backs of two fingers up the soft skin on the underside of his wrist, into his sleeve and up his forearm. “I’m a cautious person. Too cautious, maybe.”

“Yup, you are, and I’m not, usually,” Richie said, watching Eddie’s fingers as they made an unintended puppet show out of his sweatshirt. “Like at all.”

“I know.” Eddie’s fingers stopped moving. He took his hand back. Inhaled. Thought about what he wanted to say. Risked it. “One of many reasons why I fell for you.”

Richie perked up. His surprised eyes caught Eddie's and held on. “Fell?”

“Am falling,” Eddie corrected himself, though  _fell_   was the most accurate description. He had already fallen, and it felt like it happened ages ago. His habitual cautiousness tended to cover his entire body like a suit of armor, but when he was beside Richie, sometimes he went naked. And he didn’t mind.

“Fell,” Richie said solidly, affirming it. Speaking it into reality. He seemed pleased with that.

Eddie wanted to argue semantics and couldn’t suppress it. “You’re really fixated on the choice of phrase. ‘I really like you,’ was all I was trying to say.”

“I really like…where you’re going with this,” Richie said playfully, his mood much improved. “How much do you like me?”

Eddie blinked for a solid ten seconds. “I wanna see your high school yearbook picture.”

“Oof, no.” Richie grimaced. “Mugshot. I had the most hideous braces for like three years and my glasses took up my whole face.”

“Still wanna see.” Eddie licked his bottom lip, internally wagering whether or not he should pull a Richie and counter with ‘How much do you like  _me?’_   when Richie’s hand found the side of his face.

It was less than ideal, kissing in a constrictive booth on the ledge of a roof, but they surrendered, both inching closer, creeping, meeting in the middle at the mouth. It began as a dry, soft tickling; a flutter so light that Eddie barely felt it, but the heat of Richie’s body invaded his space, hitting his bloodstream like a shot of whiskey. His lingering inhibitions were taken with the breeze, and he knuckled into the front of that sweatshirt urgently, wanting every inch of Richie pressed against him.

And then they were kissing in a frenzy, getting ahead of themselves, bumping their elbows against the tabletop and melting together feverishly. Hands clenching and unclenching, gripping onto the bulk of each other’s clothing but unable to stay put. 

Richie came unglued almost immediately. Molten, just like he’d been at dawn the first time Eddie brought their lips together. He cupped Eddie's face loosely with clammy palms, reduced to strangled breaths and gumby fingers. However shaky and unsure his lungs and limbs and digits became, he knew exactly what to do with his mouth, working it deftly. His scratchy stubble mauled Eddie’s upper lip as his tongue came to life and delved deeper.

In the moment, Eddie didn’t care if his face ended up scrubbed raw. He tilted his head and opened his mouth wider, accepting Richie's whipped cream tongue and massaging it with his own. He kissed all of Richie: his enthusiasm and his kindness; his barely hidden insecurity; his intense desire to grow up. Eddie kissed him slower and slower, changing their pace from a race to a leisurely stroll, lapping at Richie like a thirsty desert traveler who had found an oasis and was dead set on drinking it off drop by drop.

 _This is what it would be like,_  he thought crazily,  _if we got an in-flight announcement that there was a system failure and we knew it was the last chance we’d ever have._

A tiny whimper escaped from Richie’s throat, and the breathy sound sent Eddie's gut on a trip below his center of gravity. The roller-coaster drop sensation tingled its way directly into his lower body and his hands searched up, over Richie's neck, behind it, caressing him at the nape and inhaling him. Eddie sucked down the scent of those pears, and a musky, earthy aroma he couldn't place, but he knew enough to know that he wanted his pillows to smell like it.

 _It’s seven-thirty in the morning,_   the reasonable part of Eddie’s brain rebuked him, threatening to ruin it,   _you’re in public and your server could come back at any second._ But he ignored the voice. He silently told it to shut up, and his fingers moved higher, searching into the short strands of Richie's hair that didn't quite meet his bun. "Take your hair down," he said, whispering heat into Richie's mouth, coaxing another soft noise out of him.

Richie panted against Eddie’s face. Their foreheads rested flush. “You could tell me to do anything right now and I would.” He obediently undid his bun, letting his hair spill down. His curls were still damp at the core and a cool strand kissed Eddie’s temple.

Eddie swept his hands up through the wild thickness of it, something he had been dying to do for so long that he was surprised when he didn’t spontaneously combust on the spot. He spread his fingers and raked them over Richie’s scalp, and Richie’s mouth came crashing back into his, kissing him harder in response.

The sliding door squeaked behind Eddie’s back, announcing their server’s return.

At any other point in his life, with any other partner, Eddie would have jumped back from the kiss. Oh, the embarrassment of getting caught. How out of control: making out in broad daylight, pitching a considerable tent, salivating and desperate for more. But Richie didn’t pull away, and neither did he. They stopped kissing in slow measures, because neither of them wanted to stop. Eddie drew back his hands from Richie’s hair and gazed into his bare eyes. Smitten eyes.  _You could tell me to do anything right now and I would._

Molly cleared her throat. Eddie heard the reluctant scratch of high heels stepping onto the balcony, but they stayed put just outside the door. “Would you guys like the check?” she asked brightly.

Eddie nodded without taking his eyes away from Richie’s face. “Yeah, I think we’re ready to get out of here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter, things will pick up for them just where i'm leaving off. thank you to everyone still reading and invested in this story. i've been writing this chapter for almost 2 months lol. i figure there's only like 3 of you left that I know of and i appreciate you, your patience, and your thoughts & feelings <3 leave some here if you want, or talk to me on tumblr @speakslowtellmelove


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